Last night, after I blogged I still couldn’t sleep right away. M was still awake, too, but in another room playing on his computer. I decided since I had some privacy, I would take some time to write while he was still awake. Up until then, I had always written on my book after he had gone to sleep. For a time I was even keeping it a secret that I was writing anything. I was too embarrassed to let him know about it because I was worried he would want to read it.
When he read my blog the other day, though, he discovered I had started writing. He wasn’t upset that I hadn’t told him because he understood how self-conscious I am about it. At the time he sounded encouraging about the fact that I was giving it a shot, but he didn’t push me one way or another. And he didn’t ask to see what I had written. It was nice, but it didn’t exactly help me get over my self-consciousness about it.
Then last night while I was writing, he came back into the bedroom to find me typing. He assumed I was blogging; I seem to be doing that constantly these days after all. I think he was relieved when I told him that wasn’t the case (at least I wasn’t writing more about him, I’m sure he thought). His next question was whether I was writing.
I blushed as I nodded that I was. The biggest grin spread across his face. He was actually proud of me that I was writing, and that I was comfortable enough to do so while he was awake and around! That totally made my day. It validated my ideas that maybe my hankering to write isn’t total and utter crap. He even helped me search for the perfect word several times when I was stuck.
He still hasn’t read any of it, or asked to, but we’ve discussed that aspect of it. He knows I will always be too self-conscious to ask him to read it, but if he chooses to read it of his own accord, he knows where to find it. I’m certain that if he does read it and give me any feedback, it will all be encouraging. He thinks of it as a great hobby for me.
I know it’s quite the reach to think of it as anything more than that, but a part of me, deep down inside, wants it to be more than a hobby. I keep thinking how great it would be if this was the solution for his repeated nagging about “when you go back to work.” If this was my work, if I could make money doing what I already want to be doing, my life would be made.