The husband posted yesterday about how he launched his novel-writing career. (I hope it’s a career! Fingers crossed!) But, he didn’t quite get our conversation right.
The real conversation:
TH: I don’t want to work any more. [Manly pout.] I want to write a book.
ME: MmHmmmm. [Log into YNAB.]
TH: Complain, complain, complain …
ME: Yeah, it sucks. [Run some reports in YNAB.]
TH: I’ve always wanted to write a book, I’ve started so many.
ME: Yeah, I want to know how the cable guy one ends. You stopped just when it got good. [Budget analysis in YNAB.]
TH: Retirement’s so far away, I wish I didn’t have to wait.
ME: Can you do it in 6 months?
TH: Can I .. what? Write a book in 6 months?
ME: Yeah, can you write a book in 6 months?
TH: I don’t … Probably? Probably, yeah.
ME: Ok, let’s do it. You have 6 months. But that’s all, you’ll need to go back to work after 6 months.
TH: Wait, you mean just … quit my job and write a book?
ME: Yeah. But only for 6 months. That’s when the savings runs out.
TH: Really? You mean for real?
ME: Yeah. But not forever, ok? Just, you know. 6 months.
TH: [Manly cartwheel.]
Ok, ok, so maybe that’s not how it really, really happened. I don’t know that there was any pouting and there probably weren’t any cartwheels. Probably. But, in any event, it all came from a place of careful calculation … not from anything like a ‘heart’. I’m not so noble or generous as the husband’s post would imply. But, I suppose, that’s the novelists’ prerogative.
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