Henry is outside as I type this, reading the first draft of a book I’m writing.
It was quiet out there when I entered. His face appeared stern as he read. He hates it. I can tell just by the way the heater was blowing in the room.
Why does he need heat when my manuscript should be warming the cockles of his heart?
Also, his shoulders were kind of hunched up as if he were expecting a blow from me, which I would only mete out if he hates my book. Which brings me back to this …
I should have become a dentist.
People are always going to have cavities and gingivitis. But dentistry has one of the highest suicide rates. Hmm.
Then again Hemingway, Sylvia Plath and Hunter S. Thompson all offed themselves. Fortunately, I’m not as brilliant. Writers of average talent tend to live.
Crap. He just came in and told me he thinks it’s entertaining, but is not sure what the overarching theme is.
I hate him a little right now. I’m going to infuse his soap bar with Nair. Perhaps then he’ll see the “overarching theme” in our marriage.
I’m signing off now to fester. Or gag my husband.