The first time I realized my wife was a true writer was July ’12. We were living in Houston, she was 6 months pregnant with our second daughter and we had just moved into a new house: a three bedroom, two story with a lime tree and koi fish pond in the backyard. Life was definitely tight, I was a teacher and she had grinded her way through a stint with Potbelly and a temp service gig. So when she accepted a receptionist opportunity at a local RV dealership, the progress was welcomed.
She excelled and was quickly offered a promotion as a social marketing specialist. She controlled the company’s social media, wrote reviews of RV units and managed their blog. Mind you, she knew ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about RV or camping. Yet she made the most of her opportunity. I was nonchalant about her new position at first. As she toured RV units for hours on end, studied competitor’s social media presence and questioned supervisors for descriptions of units, I realized that she did so because of her commitment to her craft.
All things controlled, she wanted to be the best writer she could be. Her commitment to research, vivid imagery and passion for perfection was innate. She excelled and aided in building a social media presence that the company had never experienced. She loved creating lively atmospheres that retirees on a splurge could appreciate and, honestly, she was amazing at her job.
Years later, I’ve come to understand, appreciate and celebrate her as the gifted writer that she is. But gifted doesn’t equate convenient.
The struggle in loving a gifted writer is the balance: performing the dance of the muse yet living the life of the mistress.
She writes. All the time. 4 a.m. sessions, Facebook groups with writing partners she’s never met, 30-day novel writing challenges, a master’s degree and redefining her social media presence. She bares her soul with her pen, which is my gift and curse. Her spirit speaks through her writing. I am grateful to have seen what a person is like at their most vulnerable and passionate stages. It’s utterly inspiring. And crippling.
And one of the reasons I love her.