If not for my husband, I wouldn’t have a career in writing. Years ago, when I said, “I think I’d like to try writing a book,” he didn’t laugh, or tell me how few people ever succeed in getting a book published, or tell me I had more than enough to do with two preschoolers, that I shouldn’t take on anything more. No, he said, “Then do it.”
When I started sending manuscripts out to publishing houses and began getting rejections, he didn’t tell me I might as well quit and try something else. No, he clipped lists out of magazines that told how many times Gone with the Wind and dozens of other classics were rejected. He told me to keep trying.
When I told him I’d found a local writers group, he encouraged me to attend and said he’d watch the children.
When he was laid-off from his job and we were eating into our savings, he told me to keep going for at least another year before I gave up and went back to teaching.
And when I sold that first book, four months before the end of that additional year he’d given me, he was as pleased as if I’d won a million dollar lottery, and told me to keep at it.
For thirty-five years he’s bragged me up to others, supported me both financially and emotionally, and helped me with any research that involved cars, guns, or how a man might react to a situation.
I’ve known many writers, both published and striving to be published, who don’t have or haven’t had supportive husbands. Many of them, once they do succeed dump those men, but others keep going on, dealing with their husband’s snide remarks and undermining tactics. I don’t know how they do it. I’m so glad I’ve never had to endure that.
So if you have a supportive husband, give him a hug. They’re worth a fortune.
And check out a few of the other blogs in this challenge A-to-Z Blogging Challenge