Relationship or Write? You Choose.

When Writing Gets in the Way

He walks in the door and I give him my kiss. He's long, tall, has a great build, he's more than handsome. His hair is a tumble of smashed dark brown curls and a few errant strands poke out in peculiar formations. His baseball cap has formed his hair-style again. His clothes are rumpled, and there are holes in the pockets of his shirt where his reading glasses and cell phone are looking for the escape hatch. His knees are all banged up and there's a hole in his jeans. He's wearing his work clothes of course; they make him look that much more lovable.

"Caps come off first, work time is over." That's my opening statement.

Sometimes we struggle over the cap and we laugh together. He announces,

"Work's not done yet, I have to wash the truck," or something stupid like that.

I laugh and tell him, "That's not work -  the hat comes off."

We have so much fun together. I try to ruffle his hair back into place. It doesn't want to be fixed. We sit at the table together and then the dreaded question is asked.

"What did you do today?"

I know by the look in his eyes, and the feel of his words, I wish I had a different answer. It's always the same, I can't lie.

"I wrote all day without stopping. Look, even my fingertips are calloused." 

To me, this is more exciting than my first roller coaster ride. And, I didn't throw up at the end. Having a writing day is like receiving a present. It really is a gift. It's been my true love, beginning with childhood. The words have watched me grow over the years, happy with my increasing competence. I will always be a writer.

Does it get in the way of a relationship?

I feel the sadness in his eyes. I know he wishes I would go out more. I don't want him to see how difficult this is for me. It must be hard to understand -  he's out all day 5 A.M. to 7 or 8 P.M, working hard in the "working world". He's tired, yet pleased with himself for a long hard work day.

His hands are rough to the touch, he's a tradesman. I love them. I crack his knuckles and check his hands for wounds. It's part of our ritual. He always gets kisses. If there are any injuries, kisses are for sorrow. If he is injury free, kisses are for joy that he kept his body safe for one whole day. His kisses are wonderful. Not wet and slippery, not dry and hard - just enough to moisten my lips and firm enough to send shivers through me.

He loves me. I can feel it everywhere. I'm the one who puts a negative slant on our lives.

"You are a great kisser" I always tell him. I love him. I never thought I would say those words and it would be true. Yes, I have told other guys I loved them, even married them. This love is different. Doug has surprised me over and over again, as I allow myself more freedom to love and trust.

He's skeptical of my declarations, perhaps his idea of who he is falls short of what I see in him. He always has a funny story or two and tries to pass them off as reality. I laugh, even if sometimes I doubt the veracity of his tales.

A different aspect of my writing gets in the way; we come from very divergent backgrounds. He doesn't understand my "big" words. I don't like some of his more "colorful" words. We worked it out.

He presses for more input.

"Did you go out at all today?"

Being outside is interesting, he's right. The weather is beautiful.

Every foray is more challenging than anyone knows. I can't concentrate for very long - unless I'm writing. Words flow, all choice is taken from me. I have to write. In this sense, writing doesn't get in the way of my life, life gets in the way of my writing. Yes, it means I sat at a computer for more hours than I want to disclose. I didn't go out, although I might have gone for a walk. I get points for that. Sometimes, I remember to convince myself it feels good to get on my "elliptical" for forty minutes. It still doesn't count as "doing something."

I don't like sitting in front of a computer, it's true, and I really am a slave to words. They tumble out of my brain with no care for my convenience. It's hard to concentrate on our "activities" if a story is running through my head. Although it's okay for him to work extra hours to get a job done, it's not okay for me to interrupt our time with writing. It doesn't bother me  - we don't have much time together. It's the look in his eyes, and the taste of his words that allows me to feel inadequate. I let myself feel that way, I know. No one can make another person feel anything. We are all responsible for our own thoughts.

I take special care to ask him questions about his day's activities, finding an interest in them.  Sometimes that means listening to the same story over and over again every night. He stops as soon as I gently remind him that I "had heard that one more than once." 

I tell him the number of reviews I received, and how many points I earned today. He tries to be interested, however, it's not something a non-resident of  WDC can appreciate.

Does your writing get in the way of your relationship? Or does life get in the way of your relationship? Your choice.

Before I met Doug, I was spending long nights, sometimes until three in the morning, writing and writing. There were times I would not be aware time had passed until I looked up to see the only light in the room was coming from the blue screen of my Dell computer. 

I have adjusted my schedule to match his and I do like it. I imagine though, if I were alone again, I would revert to the late nights. Life doesn't hurt as much if I am awake when everyone else is sleeping. The next day, I can sleep for the first part of the day. The amount of working hours is reduced; I have less time to remember who I am. 

Maybe tomorrow I can be someone else. Only an author understands the irony of those words.

We will always be writers. Months may pass before the words visit me again.They will recognize me as the writer they have fostered and bounce with excitement on my fingers as I tap the words into the computer, preparing them for a new life at WDC.