Two weeks ago I attended a book launch. It wasn’t the first one I’d attended and hopefully won’t be the last but it was one of the strangest because it was FH (Frugal Husband) who was the author.
As I watched him take centre stage I didn’t break down and start singing “It should have been me!” but it did feel a bit weird because I used to be the sole author in this relationship!
It would be churlish not to be pleased for him. He is a brilliant writer who is passionate about his subject. And he did give me a big mention in the acknowledgements and in his speech. He writes non fiction books about
So what’s the problem then?
Why do I find myself making flippant references to ‘A Star is born’ saying I’m James Mason to his Judy Garland. Why do I feel a tiny bit encroached upon?It might be because FH is so darned well organised and focussed. I am rubbing the sleep from my eyes and wrestling the demons of confidence, a tricky plot twist and obsessing about the dust on the ceiling whilst he is busy writing down his itinerary for the day and is 100% sticking to it. And he is whistling!
As I prevaricate about whether to write in the shed, go to the British Library or fire up the ancient Dell in the back room he has brewed a pot of tea and is improvising on the laptop until I make up my mind. He can work anywhere.
I’m ashamed to confess that this reasonableness can bring out the sulky teenager in me and I have stomped my foot and behaved badly. The truth of the matter is I know I have to swallow my pride, throw out that wilting violet of a frail ego and KNUCKLE DOWN.
I too can be organised and focussed. I can settle on a writing place, dust mountains will be ignored and plots bent into shape. I’m just not sure about the whistling.