Right before bed, I bring up some silly story idea about a faerie magician who has a monkey wrench blasting rod. I've not gotten any further than an object and a short paragraph detailing just how said object was being contrived by one whom would be unable to wield such a weapon, due to his fae nature. This had been discussed previously today with a colleague, I'd have a lot of explaining to do: the logistics simply weren't there.
Enter wife. After going on about this at length after prayers (and doing a horrible job of reiterating what my intentions were for the character and said weapon) she says to me:
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course." I say, knowing full well she's going to tell me not to listen to this writer-friend of mine, to just go with whatever idea it is that makes it my story.
"I think you should set yourself a deadline for the book."
I'm flabbergasted, to say the least. That she didn't take the route she normally would, of course; what's worse, she offered something so preposterous that would lead to things like goals. Time management. Maybe even...sacrifice.
We bat back and forth the idea of having something ready to send out to a publisher (?!) by Christmas. At the very least, I can have a nice gift to give this year. She doesn't fail to point out that this was indeed the goal I've been setting for myself the last two years in a row.
Knowing I'm a bit of a numbers guy, she conned me into my birthday on 08/18. I tried to jockey for more time. 08/18/18 would be so much better. For hating math, I'm a little nutty when it comes to repetition [insert weird sounding math term here.]
"Absolutely not," she states, "that would be another five years."
I mumble something about Stan Lee not getting his start until 40, but to no avail.
I suggest we pray about it, but give the stipulation that she be the one to do the praying. It was her idea. I try for the impossible, knowing full well that she's not an "out loud" prayer. We're quiet: I empty my head to listen to my wife, to God and His direction and will for my life.
But I really hear her. I almost can't believe it because even though were close, she's got this cold--enough so that this is the first time in five months of marriage that I've seen her prop her head up to sleep--and the humidifier is turned up full blast.
It's faint, but boy-howdy she's whispering a prayer somewhere under her breath, I can hear it.
I'm filled with the Spirit for this woman, for this book, for my God.
What's seven months, give or take a couple of days?