he always worries about the wrong things!

you've got to love this boy. i mean, i've got to love him anyhow.

he's been crazy busy with work lately, and with family stuff on top of that. plus traveling out of town on business. so he says to me, "claire, i'm worried i'm neglecting you and our other yams." (full disclosure, he did not say "yams." i'm just trying to use it more often because sasha really wanted it to catch on as a term for the members of our polyamorous partnership.)

and i say back to him, "are we having this conversation again?"

"i guess?" he says. "i just feel like i haven't been giving all of you enough time to stretch out and express yourselves and be vibrant within my life."

"dude," i tell him. "when was the last time you did any writing? you've got like four or five different books going last i counted and you said earlier this year you were going to get back to writing 500 words a day and you were all excited about that and about the stories themselves, and then, pfff."

"is this supposed to be making me feel better? because it's doing a terrible job at that."

"no, it's supposed to be showing you who you're really neglecting: you."

"well, but ..."

"uh-uh, no buts. you've been working, you've been traveling, you've been doing family stuff, but you haven't been doing that much you stuff. and that includes us, because we're you stuff too, but it also includes your writing, which honestly, you know is the thing you're best at in the world."

"i mean, i like to think i'm also pretty funny."

"you're very funny. and you're awesome in bed. you have tons of great qualities. i wasn't saying being a writer is the tippy-top of your many good qualities. i was saying you're the best writer in the world."

"okay, now that's ridiculous. you're just trying to flatter me or something. or i guess maybe you really think that, but --"

"name a single other writer who always writes exactly the kind of thing you want to read. i'll wait."

"well, there's ... no, he's dead. but there's ... no, he's dead too, and some of his stuff was good without being exactly what i'd want to read. why am i even trying to do this, though? just because i always write what i want to read and no one else does, that doesn't make me the best writer in the world. i think it's pretty obvious from my utter lack of fame and fortune that i don't write exactly the kind of thing a ton of other people want to read."

"but honey, f*ck those other people. like, don't literally f*ck them, because you've got a house full of yams here who could use the f*cking, and i know your f*cking time is limited in availability. but just imagine all those other people f*cking off, because they don't matter when it comes to your writing. no one else is better at making you happy with writing than you."

"okay, i guess. as usual, you're right about that. but if i start writing more, that will leave me even less time to spend on you and our yams."

"el wrongo to the bongo, dear boy," i say. "you know how the writing game works for you. the more in the groove you get, the more creative mojo you have, and that means the more brainpower you'll have available to hang with us."

and this completely shuts him up. because he knows i'm right. the more he does what he's best at, the more of him there is to do everything else. it's just how he works.

when he's not worrying about everything else in the world, that is.

goofball.