Last night was rough. I was supposed to go to bed early, but I couldn't because I was too busy dealing with my broken blog. Which is still broken. I don't even know how to fix it. I'm so desperate.
Anyway. The Husband was mad at me. The whole night. For trying to fix my blog.
See, he doesn't "get" my blog. He doesn't read it. He doesn't want to read it. If I mention it, he says, "Well, I'd rather talk to you than read stuff you write. I mean, you've probably already told me everything in there anyway." And apparently, he doesn't care that it's broken.
I can't tell you how much this hurts me. We don't really get each other a lot. I mean, he hates crocheted anything. He would never, ever wear anything I made for him and he doesn't like for me to make things for the kids to wear. So, he doesn't get it.
I don't get video games. It doesn't make sense to me how you can sit on the floor for hours playing some weird game.
But this. This he should get. He's a writer too, and he should understand that writers want to be read. That it's sort of the whole thing about writing. But he doesn't. And he doesn't want to.
And really, I have no point here. I just want to whine about it. I want to complain about he should get it. He should care. He should be here reading this, but he isn't. He won't be. He refuses to be. Because he wants me to tell him.
But there are things, special things, heartfelt things, that you can't just say. I can't tell him any of this for instance, or how grateful I was about that Doctor Who marathon, or how overwhelmed I was by something that Brynna didn't do. I can't say any of those things and if I did, it would sound stupid. Mushy tripe. But I can write it. Writing it is different. It's transcendent. It's important.
The act of writing is what makes me a writer. I struggle with it all the time. And mostly, I don't call myself a writer, because I don't write enough and I don't feel I deserve it. But this space, this instant publishing wonderland, gives me a gift. The gift of writing. The gift of publishing. The gift of readers. The gift of feedback. It's special.
And it pains me that he doesn't get that.