writing in the dark

Sometimes I don't even know if I like writing. It's just this thing I do to torture myself. Other times it flows and I am euphoric. More often than not it's the former.

Right now, almost 40,000 words into the new novel, I'm a teensy bit terrified. Because no one has read it yet other than me and because 40,000 words is a lot of words that could potentially all be crap. I could have spent them all on a heroine that no one will like or a plot that won't be believed. The first book, which didn't sell let's remember but which did get some nice things said about my writing and gain me an agent, could have been a fluke and it's entirely possible that I can't write after all.

But, just in case, I'm going to finish the darn thing and force some poor soul(s) to read it. Just in case. 

Today in my writing room (yes, that's blogger on the screen)

Editing with Kitty in the sunroom

choosing love

It's occurred to me recently that Jeremy and I are compatible. I mean, thank god right? Since we went and got married and all, but bear with me. We're neither of us unkind, even when we're angry, and we laugh - mostly both of us laughing at Jeremy but there you go. And generally we just enjoy being around each other. It's all fairly laid back - there's no jealousy or anxiety or demands. It works.

But the thing that I've been puzzling over is that it hasn't always been this way. I mean, we've never been unkind or jealous and we've always laughed, so I guess those bits have been in place. But we got together when I was 19 and Jeremy was 23. We were different people with different expectations of a relationship and I for one hadn't yet figured out how to comfortably exist within myself. I was neurotic - calling him compulsively (I'm convinced he resorted to screening my calls) and losing so much sleep I'd fall asleep during the day if I rested my eyes for a second. He was, and remains, incredibly relaxed within his own skin - in a way I've only ever known Americans be - but he also had that edge of selfishness that I guess you'd expect in a 23 year old guy. I don't mean that resentfully - if anything I wish I'd had it too, although if I had then we likely wouldn't be where we're at today, but he was OK with doing his own thing 3000 miles away and knowing he loved me and we'd be seeing each other in 3 months. I was... less OK with that.

We should have broken up. I mean, we did sort of break up, but then we got back together and never really stopped talking in that time anyway so it doesn't really count. It shouldn't have led us here. Jeremy should have got supremely pissed off at my neuroses. I should have freaked out and given up on his infuriating relaxedness. It shouldn't have worked.


But it did. Somehow, we both held on. Even when probably everyone around us was thinking we needed to just give up already (you know I know you thought that), we couldn't walk away. And I wonder. I wonder whether somewhere within us existed our future selves. And those selves recognized each other and knew that we only needed to endure our younger stupider selves for a little longer and then it'd all be OK.

I realized recently that a lot more has been asked of Jeremy than is maybe asked of most new husbands. When we first married he had to immediately adopt the roles of best friend, comforter, family, supporter because everyone else was so far away. Of course I had to get my act together and prove myself to be a heck of a lot more driven, productive and confident than I normally am, but if he hadn't stepped up to the plate then I couldn't have.

We've something special and I marvel at it daily.

The Italy trip where we met - with Helen and Sam (Oliver was behind the camera)

And the same people 7 years later, at our English wedding 2 years ago. 

Growth

It's been a summer of growth - of the vegetable variety. I'd like to claim at least partial responsibility for it, but I can't. It's all Jeremy. But I've much appreciated the spoils. Fresh tomatoes, basil and aubergine all summer long? Yes please. I could have done without Jeremy lamenting the demise of his cucumber plants on repeat for the past month or so, but if that's the price I have to pay for heirloom tomatoes then so be it.

Here are some pics. 

Square foot gardening in raised beds...
I did help mix and transfer soil, so that's something right? 

burgeoning watermelon

Harvest

kitty picking his way over the harvest. 

Careful time.

Yesterday I waved my Mommy off at the airport, managing not to cry until she was out of sight because she'd made me promise I wouldn't. And I didn't cry a ton - not like those early weeks the first time she left when I went to sleep with leaking eyes and woke up to the same salty ache.

"But we'll see them really soon" Says Jeremy. Others remind me of how little they see their same-state parents. Neither argument helps all that much.

Because the problem is that the only time we have these transatlantic days is weighted with the goodbye that's coming. It's measured out - a five day trip followed by three, four, five months apart, followed by another week's trip. Yes if I lived in England it's unlikely I'd spend an entire week with just my Mum, but that's not the point. The lack of careless time is the point. The sort of time where you can be grumpy and it doesn't matter, doesn't 'ruin' time... the sort of time where sleeping in doesn't steal hours from a day and reading a book isn't being unsociable - where saying goodbye doesn't generate tears.

And that's what I cry for, mostly, these days. I'm OK about not living with my mother - much as I love her, as a 28 year old married person (I couldn't bring myself to write 'woman'), that's not the best scenario. I just wish with the core of my core that I could have that luxury of being careless with the time spent with her - spent with all of them - safe in the knowledge that there's a hefty supply of it in waiting.

I chose this. And yes, he's worth it, but still it aches.