Last night I sat down and the words began to flow. A torrent of prose erupted from my fingertips and splashed onto the screen with fantastic nuance, deep soulful longing, achingly beautiful imagery. What’s more, it was The Big Scene, which I’d had in my head for months, but hadn’t gotten to yet. Last night, it was time. And I wrote until my fingers bled – okay four or five good pages – but it was good. It was fan-freakin’-tastic good.
Mrs. Novelist was sitting on the couch when I finished the scene. I decided to show her just how incredibly fantastic her husband truly is, so I read her a few pages and finished with The Big Scene.
Except that somebody had taken my deep, touching, wonderfully poignant, thrilling, tear-jerking words and replaced them with utter crap. I tried to stop reading, but it was too late. The words kept coming out of my mouth right up until the end.
I looked up, prepared for her to tell me that our dog could probably poop more artistically than I could write, yet hoping she’d be gasping for breath as the tears rolled down her cheeks in rapturous joy at hearing something so beautiful.
“That was nice,” she said and continued playing her game on her phone.