She said, I’m going to write a novel in one month. November, actually.
He said, You go, girl.
A month or two later…
She said, I don’t think I am going to write the novel. I have a gazillion reasons why it doesn’t even make sense to attempt it.
He said, Here’s all the reasons why your reasons are no good.
A week later…
She said, I don’t think I am going to write the novel. What if I can’t do it? What if I put all this energy towards it and it’s terrible? What is really going to be pushed aside to produce that kind of time?
He said, I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen. I’ll cook dinner for a month. I’ll take over house stuff. I really want you to do this.
And then he said, I think you should do it, not because what you write might or might not be good, but because it will be good for you.
She sighed. She thought. She was still unsure.
She said, I just don’t know.
He said, I think you should do it because you have a story to tell. Because you light up when you talk about it. Because it’s OK to be more than a mom and a wife.
She said, OK. And thank you.
She was nervous but excited.
And she thought he was pretty wonderful.