There is a lot of brain-busting, mind-altering kerfuffle that goes on when you live with a writer.
It takes a special person to put up with imaginary people, research of deadly toxins and odd questions, such as “what size hole will a broadsword make in a man’s chest?” My husband has listened to me talk out loud to villains, heroines who are being blond and of course the current problem, the Twinkie.
He has heard me shout, “That’s how I’ll kill him off!” Or had me ask in the middle of a family dinner, “Do you think I should send her down the dark alley or into the hold of a ship looking for the clue?”
Yes, it takes a special person to live with a writer. You think a knitter with a yarn stash has a lot of stuff? Not compared to a writer. We have books about writing, not writing, dealing with your writers block, how not to get a writer’s block, the craft of writing, everyone else’s take on the craft of writing and well, you get the drift.
Then there is the reams of paper, pens, pads of special paper, notebooks, pens, erasers, ink for the printer and the special writing programs.
To say “It takes the patience of a Saint to live with a writer” is an understatement. So I bow deeply and give thanks to the spouses, significant others, children, family and friends of writers, because without you we would just be in a padded white cell yelling, “No, I really can make her come back from the dead with my magic spell!”
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