I'm Killing My Wife

Author's Note:

This piece was written a few years ago while I was in the midst of editing my first novella Twitch.

Now, before we get started, lets get a couple of things straight. Actually, she is my fiancé, I simply consider her my wife. (Author Update: she's now my wife). And, this has nothing to do with blood, guts, gore, murder, or a crime.  So, with the disclaimer out of the way, let’s continue…

I constantly write. Well, not exactly every single minute of every single day, but it does seem like it and, I would if I could. Regardless, we live in a rather small place. Not what you’d say is small enough to force going outside to change one’s mind, but small enough none-the-less, and this restricts our “quiet” spaces. I find that when I key bang, our living room recliner is where I’m most comfortable. Usually, the television is on but muted, our parrot Kenni is occasionally squawking, the telephone will ring from time to time, and I’m constantly glancing at the clock, hoping that I inadvertently didn’t “over-write” and thus, am late for work. Believe it or not, it works.

Now, there most assuredly is no defined moment when an idea strikes. But, when it does, typically I’ll be whole-heartedly submerged and immensely compelled to quickly get into the throes of jotting it down.

Of course, it’s not rocket science and I must admit that I have analyzed it somewhat. And, I have come to the conclusion that there are primarily two times when it occurs more often than not…while I’m standing nude, having just finished my shower and the water is still dripping from my nose…or… during the, (only one driveway, she works days and I work nights), transportation rearrangement. It is those times that I credit and appreciate this compulsion for automatically placing my legs and fingers under robotic control and directly taking me to my laptop. The other times, when the laptop is not around, the robotic control aims for the notebook chronically lingering in my back pocket.

But, not everyone in this household appreciates my focused compulsive behavior. However, considering that she has seen me published, her understanding and acceptance of my selfish passion has grown.

That was before last Thursday...

Her normal days off are Wednesdays and Thursdays, and I make every effort, most of the time failing miserably, to try to limit writing on those days so we can have quality time together. Sometimes, this passion of mine gets the better of me and I can’t help tapping out a few words, or paragraphs, or pages, or…you get the picture. Before long, the day is gone and quality time has inadvertently been bypassed and must be rescheduled for the following week. I do feel somewhat badly about it. Although, on the other hand, success requires commitment so, it’s a catch-22. I suppose I should just accept the fact that I shouldn’t write on her days off…but I’m stubborn, motivated, and maybe even addicted. Why I do it, I really don’t know. Especially since I typically (on her days off), don’t get much accomplished, other than, God bless her, discussing completely off-the-wall questions like “what do you think the ring of Saturn is made of?” or “if a seedless grape creates no seeds, then how did they grow in the first place?“ or “Do you like mauve or beige drapes?” - when I’m right in the middle of a paragraph. And, her very own stubbornness and impatience ensures the inability to wait for me to finish typing the thought before getting my answer. But, just for the record, most are interesting enough.

However, I’m a typical guy, and therefore could care less about the finer points of home decorating, let alone curtain colors. Maybe it's a chick thing? Point being, my immediate writing thought and overall concentration is abruptly halted in order to discuss one of these arbitrary and usually pointless questions.

Anyways, getting back to her days off and the Thursday thing… For two weeks, I had been viciously working hard on finishing up a piece called “Twitch” – a nineteen thousand plus word novella about a deformed carnival attraction that harbors a dark secret, and was putting on the final touches for submission to Hellfire Publishing. (Note: although I mention final touches, a typical writer, and I’m no different, never truly feels that their piece is completely finished and will therefore, constantly strive to write more. By the way, since then, the novella has been accepted and will be available July 15th

Regardless, on Wednesday, her first day off, she was remarkably silent and sparse. Doing things like facebooking, sitting on the back deck in the sun, and chattering away, like a broken record no doubt, on the telephone out of hearing range. I accomplished much since she was not in the living room watching a cheesy ancient black and white science fiction or horror movie (for the record, I enjoy them too), or asking no bearing whatsoever questions. Then came Thursday…

I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat back with my laptop, (that not finished writer thing), and hit key one. Sitting on the couch alongside the recliner drinking her morning cup, she comes out of the blue with, “Jeezz…I hope you don’t expect me to be like yesterday!” To which I replied, “I’m just trying to finish up Twitch.” Her reply, (an obvious television watching withdrawal symptom), “you’re killing me!”  And, looking from her perspective, I suppose maybe the writoholic in me was.

So, the television turned on and she began exploring the channel guide. (obviously setting the groundwork for the days’ couch laying movie extravaganza). I pondered her odd word selection choice and thought that it was rather drastic, harsh, and intense.


But, then again…I am a horror writer…so maybe it really wasn’t.

 

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