stetson ray

Sometimes I’ll be talking to my husband and he’ll float away. He will be looking at me, then his eyes go somewhere else. I don’t get the best of him. He saves that for his books. He can be himself when he’s there. Not where he’s here. It must be nice to have somewhere to go.

I bet he feels like a god when he’s writing. I’m sure me and the baby remind him he’s not. Would he notice if we disappeared? Probably not. He could just write us into his newest series and keep us forever. Improve us. Make us who he really wants us to be. Sometimes I think about going upstairs to his office and picking up his laptop and smashing it over his desk and screaming, “Looks like the first act needs a rewrite!” just to see the look on his face.

But the truth is, I’d never do that. All those fans waiting for a new book would die when they found out. Or kill me. I’m sure there’s a few of them crazy enough to do it. They send him things. Letters, photographs, poems. Once I opened a package and a vial of blood rolled out. I threw it away. A few weeks after I gave birth to our baby a fan sent us a monogrammed bib. I threw it away. The letters never stop. Sometimes I read them. They beg him to hurry and finish another book. To think there are people out there waiting, my husband’s stories the only thing keeping them going. I guess you could say they live for it.

It’s like being married to a doctor I suppose. People need him. He has an important job to do. I’m just some woman. Our son is just some baby. And what do we have to complain about? Nothing. The fans buy us everything we want. We live like kings. That’s what it’s like. Being married to a king. I should be grateful. My life is wonderful. I’m happy. Not as happy as my husband. I can hear him typing from anywhere in the house if I stand perfectly still and remain quiet. Sounds like far away firecrackers. Must be fun falling into something like that. Does he care that I have nothing to do while he writes? Does a junkie care about anyone else when they’re getting a fix? No. He’s a word addict. Addicted to putting words on paper. Paper with words on it weighs more than paper that doesn’t. A wife with nothing but free time has more time to love her husband.

Sometimes I read his novels so I can spend time with him and hear his voice. It’s like being inside his head. He dedicated his last book to me. I should be grateful. He named the main character’s dog after me. It was a surprise. He let me find out when I was reading. I should be grateful. Sometimes he types so hard I’m afraid he’ll break a key. Or a finger. He never gets tired of it. He never stops. Lines and lines. Word after word. Creation. A new world in black and white. To think I’m sitting down here doing nothing while a world is being made. I wish I could do that. I tried once. It was worse than bad. It took me three days to finish a ten page story. I waited a week and read it. I laughed until I cried. I never let him read it. I never told him about it. I threw it away. My words are dead. His are alive. Want to know the difference? People will pay to read one, but not the other. Want to know the difference between a widow and a writer’s wife? One’s got a dead husband and the other wishes her husband were dead. He doesn’t love me like he loves them. His words. His worlds.

I created a human once. He grew inside me. I pushed him out. But that doesn’t count. It’s the killing that matters. That’s what separates my husband and I. Only he knows how it feels to end a life. He gets away with it all the time in his books. He’s good at it. Maybe I could be good at it too.

The noise upstairs is slowing down. He’s nearly done for the day. When he comes downstairs he’ll have that look on his face. Totally empty, ready to be filled up. He’ll ask why I’m just sitting here on the couch staring at the wall. I’ll tell him I was just thinking. I’ll tell him I’m absolutely fine.

Maybe he’ll believe me.

The End

The Novelist's Wife

stetson ray