It’s Not You, It’s Not Me

When I took my novel to a writer’s workshop this summer, I didn’t think about the sharing and reading aloud. Had I thought it through I might not have been so brave about sharing those first chapters, which include penis cupcakes, vibrators, and a sexually deficient husband for our heroine to tolerate. But I got over it. It’s fiction, after all.

I was warned that my husband might not like it, might take it personally.

He too would get over it too, I was sure. Cut to the end of the summer and me presenting my stack of paper, secured with a big black binder clip, to my husband. I pulled it back slightly

“Just remember,” I said. “It’s not you. It’s fiction. Got it?”

He agreed and I handed it over.

Two weeks later when he finally started reading it, I had almost forgotten he had it. That night he said, “That guy had a little basket.”

“Huh? What guy?”

“That guy, Rick, in the book. He had a little basket for his change and golf tees.”

First I laughed, but I pulled it together in order to address his concerns. I admitted that yes, the closet was ours, but the characters were not. I reminded him it was purely a work of fiction.

“Little too close to home,” he joked.

I figured more reassurance couldn’t hurt.

“You’re not the husband, Babe. You’re the hot neighbor guy. Duh.”

Just like that – problem solved. It’s fiction.