Wifey

God, I adore my wife. She's beautiful, intelligent, sexy, trusting and the absolute perfect woman for me. What's more, she's my best friend. She's also very much into me. That's something that, no matter what insight I learn over the years, no matter how deeply I farm my intelligence, I can't understand. And you know what? I kind of think it's supposed to be that way. When things work perfectly, there's always this lingering question of 'why?'. When things go bad, well we always kind of expect that don't we?

All I know is that Holly is going to come home today and she's going to ask if she can sit down and read what I've written. And I'll sit her in my office chair, open the manuscript to the correct spot and linger just around the doorway of the office while she leans back and reads. She'll laugh or utter some comment like 'wow' and she'll chat with me about it. She'll tell me she loves it, or she'll tell me that she didn't quite get it or wasn't feeling it. We'll make dinner while we talk. Then we'll settle on the couch, switch on the TiVo and catch up on a couple of shows. If she's tired, she'll lie down with a pillow in my lap and I'll lightly brush her hair. If she's stressed I'll rub her shoulders. But no matter how she feels, she's right there next to me, leaning against me, holding my hand ... just being close.

In the mornings she'll get up early and do her Pilates, take her shower and then wake me up and we'll have breakfast together. Then we linger by the front door, neither of us wanting to part. I'll clean up after that, myself and the house. I'll wash her little things and put them away in the closet, only wanting to give back a tiny percentage of what I get.

Then it's time to sit in front of the computer, sun usually shining in the office window and I sit to write. And as I do so, I realize without any doubt, without any feeling of approaching doom, that I'm one well-loved writer. And I put my fingers on the keyboard and I write ... I write every word for her. For the woman I'm in love with.

For my wife.

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What a difference a book can make! How long did you see "Currently Reading: Small Town by Lawrence Block" on the bottom of my journal entries? All I know was that it was quite a while. I started Cell by Stephen King yesterday and I'm nearly half way through already. I can't stop reading the damned thing! I don't think it's just because it takes place in my old stomping ground. All the places he's mentioning, I've been. His trip north from Boston touches on all the roads and towns I lived around. It's not just that, though it helps, but it's more this neverending suspense. I want to know what's going to happen! I definitely feel the love. The love he has for the story ... the love he has for the reader. He's not pushing you through the book, he's going on ahead and praying that you'll follow him. And I will ... right up to that point where I turn the last page and I begin to feel sadness that all the characters I fell for so quickly are gone. Such a bittersweet moment is that. Then I'll go on to other authors and pray for the same experience. Sometimes I'll be pleasantly suprised, though sadly, I'm usually disappointed. But I know this, regardless of how many times he says it, Stephen King will never retire. So as long as this man draws breath, I know I'll be looking forward to being swept away yet again, only to know that someday, the book will come to a close and that bittersweet symphony will play once more. This is the ground that only reader and author have ever tread upon. No movie can recreate this. It is sacred ground.

Currently Reading: Cell by Stephen King