The Reality of being a writer

I’m writing this morning – zoning in on the characters I left yesterday – the man whose son was killed and the reporter who heard him say he was going to kill the person who took his son’s life.
It’s raining.
My husband is in the kitchen being productive by writing down how much it cost him to help the neighbours. When they pay him back we might be able to get an exercycle bike worth more than we wanted to pay.
Like me, he’s on a roll and wants to complete the job.
Suddenly he bursts into my office in the manner of an SAS Assault team ‘ to use the photo copier’ and ten minutes later, it’s a repeat performance to get an envelope.
I want to buy locks for my door.
I feel bad because I haven’t made any money and he has.
But I still want to disable him because he is not respecting the tiny, tiny piece of space I call my own.
I’ve growled and said ‘leave me alone!’ He looked surprised. It makes me want to disable him even more.
I will buy the locks and I will make him put them on the door.
I’m pretty sure I’ll love him then.

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