You know how men tend to be a little clueless about the women in their lives? How you can speak in monosyllables for an entire day and he'll never connect that to the fact you're mad because he put his socks beside the hamper rather than in it again?
Last night, I got proof that my husband pays attention to the stuff that matters (who cares about socks, after all?). We're watching Nimitz play and Mike says to me, “Why haven't you been writing lately?”
I hadn't told him I'd been in a slump, so I was a bit surprised. And I know he doesn't read my blog, at least not with any regularity to speak of. I said, “What makes you think I haven't been writing?”
“You're not yourself.”
Whoa. Not myself. After some discussion and clarification of what he meant, I understood he was right. He says, “You're a writer. You're meant to be writing and you're happiest when you are. So get writing.”
Oh dear. Am I that transparent? Apparently so. When I'm writing, when the novel is clicking along at some sort of pace, I feel like I'm doing something useful. Lately, I feel like a lazy lay-around-the-house sort of person who really ought to be pounding the pavement in search of a job. I feel guilty because I'm home and Mike goes to work every day. He swears he doesn't mind this and most of the time I believe it. But when I'm in a slump, I feel guilty for this freedom. I am supposed to be writing, producing, getting my work sold, and when the muse is off on a beach somewhere, I feel useless. I guess it shows in the way I behave. I didn't realize that, but he sure did.
I may be in a writing slump at the moment, but I'm sure lucky to have a husband who knows me so well. Maybe I'll open up the novel today and see what happens……