DP and I are that annoying couple you see out at the coffeeshops. We have matching Macs, hipster glasses, and can order egg sandwiches at [cafe redacted] at 10 am on a Monday. (You may hate us; I’d hate us too.) However we are working. DP is grading papers or writing his syllabus, and I am editing or sometimes writing.
I thought being married to a writer would mean that we shared all of our writerly ups and downs together. (I also thought being shacked up meant that your partner would bring you coffee in bed.) Not so much.
DP: [no response]
DP: [in a slightly put-upon tone] What?
Indy: I just had to cut the end of my book [dramatic pause] again.
DP: Mm hm. [goes back to work]
How can your syllabus be more interesting than the inherent drama of not having a neat end to the complicated project I’ve been working on for years and years!?! This is why they say marriage is hard.
What’s your writing drama?