We set a goal of 2,000 words per week. Epic fail. I have 962, I don’t know what Clark has because he is writing it by hand. Not quite what I had mapped out in my writing manifesto last week, but something unexpected happened in between my bouts of obsessive planning.

Picture a rough day in which we managed to  persistently throw up obstacles to seeing each other clearly. I woke up irritated, ready for a fight, accusing him of “infantilizing” me with unyielding paternalistic  direction and concern. He left the room so he could peacefully listen to a new CD. His uncle called to talk about the woes of his intestinal track. We argued about the value of watching Meet the Press. Our internet connection was impossibly slow due to wind, and the garage door wouldn’t open.

We tried to salvage the day with a walk in Forest Park, confining talk to our safe subjects: clouds, other writers and dogs.

“Great clouds today.”

“Yea, really beautiful.”

“What did you think of that short story in the New Yorker?”

“I liked it.”

“Me too. Surprising, I usually detest their stories.”

“Yea, really detest them.”

“So overwritten.”

“Yea, and that 40-under-40 series, what the hell was that?”

“I think it was 30-under-30.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Hey, cute dog!”

He made lunch and I did the dishes. We kissed, perfunctorily, and as is our routine,  monosyllabically assured each other of mutual and eternal love, despite the difficult, walking-on-eggshells boring day-thus-far we had shared. Later that afternoon, he watched the Redskins get whooped by the Giants and I  finished the new Arkady Renko novel in another room.

But then that night — as required by my manifesto — we started writing. He by hand, me on the laptop. Two hours later, we shared. He read his stuff to me. I read mine. He commented about not liking flashbacks, I agreed he might be right. I asked about his prologue and wondered how he was going to get the character where she needed to be.  We laughed that we’d managed to create the identical scene in which “a rivulet of blood dripped from her mouth, down her chin, disappearing in her milky white cleavage.” As I read the love scene I had written, my cheeks flushed, and it turned out there was a love scene in his chapter too. The prospects for a good night suddenly looked promising…

I told him what I really think: “Of the two of us, you are the better writer.” He gave me all the expected rebuttals, but secretly he agreed, I could tell, because at that moment, he had an literary ego-orgasm. Shiny proud neurons, visible only to me, shot out of his ears. I sighed. He smiled.

Was I faking it? Not really, he was a better writer, but just for those two hours. That part I’ll keep to myself. And I’ll be better next time. Perhaps that’s one of the most compelling reasons to write with your partner: shared story-telling does wonders for both the writing life…and the romantic life.

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