When I was married, one of the things my ex and I went back and forth about was the amount of work I brought home. To make matters worse, I wasn’t bringing home work I was getting a monthly paycheck for or at times getting paid at all for. I brought home writing work. I allocated time that could’ve been spent with her and the kids on stories that may or may never see the light of publication. Clearly I was not spending my time in a fashion that made a lot of sense to her.
She isn’t a writer. If I’m being totally honest I held that lack of understanding against her. As opposed to encouraging the work she tolerated it the way my mother once tolerated the work and it made me feel like I might be using my time in the wrong way. I felt more and more that way the less and less work I published.
In retrospect I forgive her and recognize that I expected far too much from her. People who don’t write or draw or hold that solitary creative endeavor rarely understand those who do. Once you find a person who does it triggers a deeper appreciation for that person and the craft itself, because you are joined in a rare collective of creators.
I am slowly falling back into the writer’s life. I am absolving myself of much of the guilt that accompanied writing and thus reaching back towards a place where I write for more than just immediate profit.