Hovering on the sidelines in my wife’s first published novel — yelling at the kids, fussing over milk stains, grousing about discipline like Jack Nicholson in the movie A Few Good Men — was an imperious jackass who seemed somehow ... er, familiar.Click here to read more
“ENOUGH!” shouts the male protagonist in A Subtle Thing, cheesed off when his girlfriend’s young daughter makes a ruckus in the car en route to the cottage. “Just stop it!”
“What a loser,’’ I thought. “The guy clearly has no sense of humour. ‘Hey pal, take a Prozac!’ Interesting, though, that he, like me before marriage, is en route to a cottage with his girlfriend and her young daughter. How intriguing.
And then I read her short stories, poems and other works of fiction and noticed this same outraged martinet — this apoplectic windbag — popping up on the perimeter, yelling at people to pick up their socks, irked that someone left the milk on the table, and my Spidey sense began to tingle.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Ode To The Long-Suffering Writers Muse
I guess this post is to provoke pity for the long-suffering partners of writers, those that hover in the background as their loved one pounds the keyboard late into the night then, sigh, goes to bed alone. Those that must also keep a watchful eye on the antics of the various characters created, searching for unflattering parallels to their own psyche (and bad habits).But, partners of the writers, take heed. Eventually they sleep, fingers still twitching from the epic journey they traveled into the night and maybe, just maybe, one day that great work of fiction will be dedicated to you.