‘Are you coming down the farm?’ She asked the question in a tone that expected I had nothing else important to do.
I hesitated, aware of the precarious situation I was in. After all, a refusal could be construed as rejection on my part.
What to say? I was desperate to write, but in truth, and even though she didn’t say as much, I really had nothing important to do. I certainly hadn’t got anything important to write. And yet, I knew I had to write just for the sake of writing. Writing is of course a craft and one can’t expect to ever get any better if one does not practice his craft with fanatical fervour.
In the end my hesitation won the battle for me before battle had even begun. It warped itself into a palpable aura of sulk that proceeded to melt my face into that of a petulant child. I did not do this on purpose, rather my whole being seemed to respond to the threat of not being able to write by my regression back to a child like state. I call this my Level One writing fit. Level Two sees my regression go even further whereby I enter a primate like state, raging and hopping about like a maddened gorilla. Unfortunately for me, Level Two is completely ineffectual against my wife who is able to slay petulant gorilla men with a single stare – a stare that threatens pain and suffering on a scale untold unless one calms, sits and enters peaceful negotiation. This negotiation is I swear both victory for her and a punishment for me as not only do realise I have become an arse, but I am losing writing time by the second until I acknowledge my current arsehole status.
On the whole though, I have the support I need. I am blessed with a wife who understands the importance reading and writing are to me. I feel immense sorrow (pity?) for those writers whose partners are not supportive. Knowing how much reading and writing means to me, I am not sure I could be in a relationship without the level of support I have. I read about writers who have shut themselves away from the world. They’ve cut themselves off from friends and family and they hide behind closed doors, and all so that they can gain a piece of that solitude we as writers all crave. I can understand why they would do that. I really can. It is for this reason that I bless my luck at having a wife who stands by me as I stumble on down the path of the writer. My concerns are heard with a ready ear, my hopes caressed and my dreams encouraged. When I fall, my wounds are soothed, my pride eased and my ambition stoked.
You would be wrong to think my wife simply pours honey in my ear and gives false hope for she is also my chief critic and advisor. Nothing gets passed her that would not be better burned. In fact, my previous post talks all about this and so read that if you can spare another few minutes. It saves me repeating myself.
Having read back through this post I am amused by what it has become. It was supposed to be all about how important support is to writers, but what I appear to have written is how important my wife’s support is to me. But then, I suppose I have achieved my goal after all as without her support, I wouldn’t be writing very much at all. Support in my eyes is not just that which someone gives so you can go off and play writer while they do the dishes or walk the dog. It’s something they give even when you’re down and don’t feel up to putting your thoughts and feelings out there. That’s real support – the ability to give you a bloody good kick up the arse, and make you chase that dream you’re always harping on about.