Late in the evening once my children are tucked securely in bed and my husband has safely left to work I walk through the house and turn off all the lights. My finger tips tingle in anticipation of feeling that smooth firmness beneath them. Once I pull all the windows shades down I move slowly through the darkened room, eyes locked on the object of my desire. All through the day I have waited for this. While grading papers on the Civil War it lay just in the recesses of my mind, taunting me. Through dinner and bedtime stories I considered the decadent possibilities, hungering for a time when I could feel that soft caress once again.
Of the glow of my computer screen, of course.
In a way I guess it is exactly as it sounds. At least I feel like I’m having an affair with writing. Life makes so many demands on my time that when I finally can set aside some writing time I feel as though I’m having a secret tryst after hours with my laptop. I began to watch the clock at work and wonder if I can squeeze a quickie in during my lunch hour. Surely in 30 minutes I can get nearly 500 words. It’s going to take at least 15 minutes for that water to boil while I’m cooking (especially if I keep the heat on low), I can certainly sneak a quick kiss of writing in, maybe a hundred words or so.
And how do you explain your infatuation to the writing civilians in your life. They wouldn’t understand the need, the craving. The dream. Civilians don’t understand how she makes us feel whole and content. Romance writing has become the secret affair we’ve been having behind our other job’s back, so to speak. And don’t we all hunger for a time when we can make an honest woman out of her? One of these days we’d like to divorce the wifely day job and live happily ever after with the career of our heart, the job we love.
Is writing your dirty mistress?