He's not a long suffering husband in the traditional sense. He's the long suffering husband of a writer. He edits, he proofreads (not the same thing, trust me), gets ideas thrown at him, puts up with bouts of writers block and my furious house tidying and laundry doing when I'm procrastinating or ruminating about my next step. I may or may not have physically taken the laundry basket out of his hands this morning and said I would do it myself. He was left standing on the stairs bewildered.
He puts up with my questionable writing music and annoying quoting of authors and books. My super annoying proclamations that Harper Lee is the greatest writer in the world and that I want my favourite line from To Kill a Mockingbird tattooed on my forearm.
I've currently taken over our newly acquired dining table with my laptop, travel writing binder, Ereader, three notebooks of various purposes, pot of tea, stack of books and about 12 pens. Even though I have a perfectly good office upstairs with a perfectly good and clean desk.
NaNoWriMo is 3 days away and I'm still not entirely clear about my plot and had taken up much of his time complaining about it. I'm surprised he hasn't moved into the bomb shelter on a full time basis.
He puts up with the "arghs" the "harrumphs" and the "blahs" on a daily basis. And quietly leaves cups of tea next to me with a kiss on the head before retreating into his man space. He knows not to disturb the monkey at her typewriter. Or to make any sudden movements and the writer is having a plot hole related melt down.
He does it. How? I don't know. A good sense of humour I guess. And a healthy does of, "you can do this!"