2:30 am. Our studio. Pitch black, trying to fall asleep. J sounds like he's beat me to that. Silence. I start drifting off, but then get hit by an amazing idea for a short story. Learned my lesson last time this happened when I didn't write it down and forgot what it was the following morning. Won't ever let that happen again ...
Too lazy to turn on my bedside lamp and grab a pencil and paper, I fumble for my phone on my nightstand. Candles and lip balm and bottles of lotion clatter around in the darkness. J stirs. Finally, my blind hand feels my cell phone, an old-school slider that I refuse to upgrade. I bring it inches from my face, pull up the "notepad" feature and begin tapping furiously at the buttons. The loud beeps of each letter cut the silence in the studio. Ten minutes of beeping later:
J (slurring sarcastically in his sleep): "What are you doing, writing a novel?"
Me: *beep, beep* "Actually yes, I am." *beep, beep, beep*
Instead of drifting off again he laughs out loud, turns the light on and hands me a notebook and pen from his side.
Oh, the merits of being married to a budding author.
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