What does solitude mean? To intrude on one’s thinking or accuse one of imaginary infidelity simply because one was caught with a far-away look is simply, mental. To claim one knows one’s spouse so completely yet fail to grasp that being a writer, said spouse would often be in the habit of daydreaming or having that “far-away” look is just downright ridiculous.

Perhaps one fail to see that when writers have that far-away look, they are not thinking back on past loves or future mistresses, but rather they are “working.” For when the hell else would we have time to build our stories except in the spaces of our solitude? And when you intrude even on that, and ask that we surrender even that in exchange for your personal peace of mind, then what the hell did we even exchange vows of trust and love for? When you intrude on that and demand idle chatter instead of loving silence, what does that say of how deep your understanding of your spouse go? And when you break that reverie, who knows how many countless stories you have just sentenced into oblivion? Perhaps I have not been transparent enough that even the combined knowledge of all I have written failed to show you anything but that which you chose to see. By being uncomfortable with silence, aren’t you just revealing how much you truly don’t know about me?

Is there any writer who can work whilst having their spouse continuously look over their shoulder, studiously picking every word written and scrutinizing everything for their peace of mind? If I write a story about a guy contemplating infidelity, would that automatically mean that is what is in my heart? Should I just throw away that story and find something else to write that would be more suitable for your “peace of mind” even when that story would make a great story?

I need you to be there without conspicuously being there.

If you can hold my hand for a day and never have the need to speak a word…

If you can go on for months spending time with a shell of me while I travel in imagined worlds…

If you can endure my eccentricities and not take it personally…

If you can make me breakfast even when it’s 12 midnight…

or bring me coffee, instinctively knowing when I need it – understanding I need a break but not interruption…

we can go from here – and i can finally write.

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