SB LACROIX

I sat at my desk as the printer produced page after page. My husband walked by, stopped, and picked up the stack of pages. He began reading. I continued to click print. The printer kept printing. He continued to read. Except for the sound of the printer, it was silent, until he spoke.

“I thought you said you haven’t been able to write?”

“I didn’t mean literally,” I replied.

“Are you serious?” The pitch of his voice was all too familiar.

I shrugged my shoulders and clicked print again.

“You seriously think these aren’t any good?” he queried.

“I’m just not sure they’re good enough,” I sighed.

“For what? The book?”

“Yeah.”

Again, that all too familiar pitch of his voice let me know he was shocked I would think so little of what he thought so much.

“These are very good!” he insisted. “I cannot believe you think they aren’t.”

I shrugged my shoulders again.

Being objective about how I write is sometimes as hard as being objective about how I look. Sometimes, I just can’t be. I grabbed a page from the stack and began reading. 

“Yeah, this one’s good,” I said as I grabbed another page and read it. “I don’t know about that one, seems flat.”

“Flat?” The look on his face said it all.

“Yeah, lacking emotion, feeling, you know,” I replied.

“Oh, I know what you meant, and I don’t think so at all.”

His blue eyes were piercing my brain at that point, most likely questioning if it was up and running or on auto pilot.

“These are not flat,” he said, his voice a bit calmer and reassuring. “They are very good.” 

I turned away and looked out the patio doors. The pool was finally clearing after all the pollen that had made the water so cloudy. It figured; it was a rainy and raw day, too cold to go swimming.

“You really think they’re up to par?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say they were if they weren’t.”

I grabbed another page from the stack and read.

“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Then why don’t I think so?”

His blue eyes rolled in the back of his head. He was disgusted now, and it was coming. I looked away, and sure enough, it came.

“Because you never think anything you write is good enough!”

Eh. I hate it when he’s right. I really do. I’m used to being the one who’s right.