Et Tu, Thomas Part Two

Apparently I now have three loyal readers, as it seems my husband decided just once to read my blog. Of course, he read the last post and got very upset. Not upset in a silent sullen way, but more in an insulting kind of way. So, deciding to be nice enough to set the record straight, I will attempt to clarify my last post.

Since I was twelve years old, I have wanted to write. From coffee groups full of old ladies discussing how best to word memoirs written for their grandchildren to classes taught on Saturday afternoons by "published writers!" whose names bring up no results on either google or amazon.com, I have studied the craft. I have read hundreds of novels, short stories, plays, and articles and studied them all for tips on writing style and form. I have felt an absolutely undeniable conviction that somewhere in my mind, waiting to come to the forefront, was the one story which needed to be told, the one character who needed to tell his story through me.

Before I was out of high school I had written stories, plays, and poems. But since then, I have hit a wall. Easily blamed on being too busy, too distracted by life, I let it slide sure that one day I would have the time to sit down and write the Great American Novel, or at least the Great American Short Story. But now I have that time, and the character still hides among the folds of my brain, and only mediocre plots fight for prominence in my mind. But still, despite not writing anything of consequence in over ten years, I somehow consider myself a writer.

Now along comes someone who considers himself to be many things, but never a writer that I know of, and he decides to write a book. Just like that, as if it were nothing. I don't question that he has a story to tell; interesting people have interesting histories. But how did he know at what point to start? How did he know what was needless preamble and what was the point at which his story actually began? And why, if I may be allowed a brief moment to cry to the heavens. Why did the story needing to be told come to a man who never claimed story-telling as his craft, instead of to me who always has? Why is it so easy for him and so damned hard for me? I have spent years studying where to use 'who' and where to use 'whom', learning the difference between affect and effect. I know when to use a colon and when to use a semicolon instead. I understand the perils of head-hopping and why it's important to avoid the temptation to speed through in narrative what can best be explained in dialogue. And he decides, seemingly on a whim, to write a book! The ease with which he made the decision, and is actually carrying it out, seems almost designed to belittle my own difficulty, to show me how easy it really is for anyone but me.

To breeze effortlessly through a task while your mate struggles with it inevitably fosters a resentment born of envy. I'm jealous; I admit it! I'm jealous in the same way that I get jealous when Jame loses weight with no struggle, or when I hear of women going through labor with no drugs. But the worst, the absolute most painful part of this, is the creeping suspicion that I'm not destined to be a writer, that I just don't have the talent for it. Because, if that's the case, what do I dream of now? It's always been my lifelong goal, my attempt at immortality. Some people want their names in the history books, some people write or record music to live on after them, some design massive buildings. I just want to write. I have no other career aspirations, just this. I don't dream of being the next JK Rowling, but I'd like to be able to write one thing I could be proud of. And it's sad to see someone else doing it so effortlessly, right in front of me.

It's envy, and self-pity I suppose. But it's certainly no reason to be insulted by one's own husband. It's especially no reason to have one's worst fears thrown in their face by their own husband!