Perhaps not everyone knows that my wife, Becky, decided to once again return to school. This time, she's hot in pursuit of an administrator's license so she can, hopefully, some day be a school principal. She's also teaching full-time (actually, teaching is MORE than full time) and is now taking night classes and writing papers on the weekends to boot.
The long and short of it . . . we rarely see each other except in passing in or out of the door and most of our conversations and communication is done on the fly or through mental telepathy. Still, it's exciting for me to think of my wife being in charge. This brings a whole new dimension (for me) to being spanked by the principal.
A couple of weeks ago my wife also received an invitation to contribute to a book, and after she told the editor that her husband was a writer (no really, she said, he writes books and stuff, like real books! I don't read them, but I think he's written several!) the editor invited us to write a co-authored essay about the insights, stresses and challenges of a spouse pursuing a graduate degree at such an advanced age!
Neither of us really want to write this . . . and I have my doubts about whether or not my wife and I can collaborate on a writing project. Becky is, in fact, a great writer. She's slow, methodical, and precise . . . three wonderful qualities for a writer which I do not possess. She is more in the analytical vein and usually rewrites every sentence five times before she is satisfied with it. Me? I write, read, and maybe re-write once, and then I'm off writing another paragraph, another essay, another book. I could give you more examples from other areas of our life, but believe me, you don't want the details.
I'm afraid of what this collaboration might do to our relationship. Good Lord, what if we actually end up liking each other and want to write more things together? What if, after writing this essay, Becky decides that I should go back to school and become a plumber? What if we talk more? It could lead to things like casual sex or meaningful conversation. I think we both like our marriage the way it is: boring, with a hint of passion every seven months or so and plenty of personal space for solitaire and reruns of I Dream of Jeannie.
No, I'm not sure about this.
And what about the money? I mean, how are we going to split the royalties? There's not much to split now, and I hate it when we haggle over $2.40. She wants to buy coffee and I want a donut. That solution would be fine, normally, but she won't let me dunk.
Last night, before we found each other in bed around 12:30 a.m., I asked her if she would like to call the whole thing off. "I don't think we were meant to write together," I said sadly. "I think I should be on my own. But it's not you . . . it's me."
"So," she said, "are you suggesting a breakup? Separate by-lines? Different agents? What?"
"We weren't meant to write together," I said. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. It's all happening too fast."
There were tears, yes . . . but in the end we agreed to make it work. And now, I'll never let her leave. I'm in too deep now . . . up to four paragraphs with the woman and she's still writing.
I can't wait for my turn.
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