Why Being a Writer Might Be Hazardous to Your Marriage

Marriages that include one writer can present unique challenges. One more obvious scenario is the non-writer finding his or her life on display, quirks and all, in books, articles, or blog posts. Another might involve the writer becoming lost in their own make-believe world instead of staying engaged in the present reality. Or the nonwriter feeling abandoned by the writer’s constant pull toward the writing desk for hours on end, often late at night or in the wee hours of the morning.

But the challenge I’ve only lately realized is the writer’s ability to re-write everyday conversations (in which the hero has fallen short in some way) into fantasy scenes where said hero proves so loving and considerate, her fantasy heroine cannot help but feel as cherished and precious as the writer longs to feel in real life. 

Here’s an example.

In the real-life scene, the married couple (let’s call them Bill and Susan) are driving home from church and discussing plans for the following morning. Susan, who normally walks to work, has been suffering from a sore knee and has not made the walk for a couple of weeks. She’s hoping to try walking again tomorrow, but she’s waffling—especially given the sub-zero winter temperatures. But Bill needs the car to drive to the city for an appointment. He offers to drop Susan off at work in the morning, but he won’t return for hours after Susan gets off, leaving her no way home. Should she try walking home in the cold on that bad knee? She’s not sure what to do.

“Well,” Bill says, “if you don’t want to walk, you can always take a four-dollar shuttle.”

Problem solved. Right? 

Maybe for Bill. But Susan is a writer. The next day as she limps home in the freezing wind, she rewrites the scene in her mind. If she were scripting a romantic novel in which she wanted readers to swoon over Bill, she might write the scene something like this:

Bill ran a hand through Susan’s hair and brought it to rest on her chin, lifting it slightly so he could gaze into her eyes. “Sweetheart, I don’t like the idea of you walking in this cold with that bad knee. Here.” She felt him slip something into her hand, folding her fingers around it. “Promise me that if you don’t feel up to walking, you’ll call for a ride. All right?” He kissed her forehead and waited for her nod before he pulled away. Susan opened her hand to discover a five-dollar bill and a phone number for a local shuttle company.

Fantasy Bill is now a hero. He has acknowledged that Susan is a grown woman capable of making her own decision. But he has also made her feel precious with his care and his kiss. She feels provided for with the money and the phone number. And she feels important to him. Chances are, she will choose to walk home anyway, but she will do so feeling loved and cherished.

Susan compares the scene in her mind to the real-life scene, and Bill comes up sadly lacking in the romantic hero department. Instead of feeling treasured, she interprets his solution the same as if he had coldly said, “Well, I need the car. So deal with it.” 

In fact, no matter how hard Bill tries, he is never going to meet the standards of the chivalrous fantasy heroes Susan is capable of conjuring. His words won’t sound as loving, or his sentences as cleverly constructed. For that matter, he’ll probably never be as smartly dressed or smell as sexy or work as hard or earn as much or…

You get the picture.

Meanwhile, real-life Susan laments the fact she can never measure up to the air-brushed, photo-shopped, youthful models smiling at her husband every day from billboards, magazines, and the internet. It’s not fair! her heart cries, not seeing that Bill is being dealt the same brutally unfair hand.

Maybe it isn’t just a writer thing. Maybe it’s a female thing. I don’t know, but I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Chess with Keegan

“Wanna play chess with me, Grandma?”

 “Absolutely!”

Who could resist such an enthusiastic invitation from an adorable ten-year old? I tried to remember the last time I’d played. Maybe when his dad was his age? I felt sure I remembered the rules, though. Keegan set up the board and made his first move. A few moves later, he took my bishop with one of his pawns by moving it diagonally.

“You can’t do that!” I protested. “Pawns can only move forward.”

“Unless they’re capturing a piece.”

Something about his logic did sound vaguely familiar and I began to doubt my memory. “Who taught you how to play chess?” I asked.

He named one of his friends. Figured. Oh well. I’d humor the kid and play by his rules. Then he tried to tell me if my pawn made it all the way to his end, I could exchange it for a captured piece.

“No, no, no, Keegan. You’re confusing it with checkers.”

“Well, that’s how I play.” As if that settled everything.

A few moves later, we began arguing about whether I had his queen in check.

“No Grandma. It’s the king you’re trying to check.”

“No, it’s the queen. You need to protect your queen.” How on earth could we finish a game when we weren’t playing by the same rules? He beat me on the first round, according to his rules. I beat him the second time, but it was a most unsatisfactory win because we were playing two different games.

Finally, in frustration, I grabbed my phone and Googled chess rules. Turns out the kid was right.

Don’t you just hate when that happens?

Keegan didn’t hold it against me or rub it in my face. We played one more game. He beat me fair and square, and I realized a quick brush-up before we started could have prevented a lot of squabbling.

Does this sound at all like life? You’re trying to do your best, maybe in your relationships or at your job—but somebody else isn’t playing by the same rules. How can anyone ever win?

Jesus Christ didn’t play by the rules, either. He came into a world where the law and all its expanded tenets weighed heavily on people’s shoulders. When he went around breaking the rules, the religious rule-makers became so agitated, they plotted to kill him. Religion is crazy, isn’t it?

Want to disarm people? Try following Jesus’ example. A disgruntled customer comes to the counter, yelling and swearing at the clerk who really has no authority over the situation. But instead of playing by the customer’s rules and raising her own voice, the clerk speaks softly.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I can understand why you feel angry.”

Often, it’s enough for the person to start calming down. Playing by their rules only escalates the drama.

A neighbor wrongs you. Instead of retaliating or shaming them on social media, you break their rule and seek peace—even in the middle of your pain and loss. You gain a friend, a loyal neighbor. You teach your children the power of forgiveness. You sleep better at night.

Is that possible?

Maybe we should ask some ten-year-olds.

My Stint as a Bootlegger

One of the forty items on our fortieth anniversary list last year was to visit the Tunnels of Moose Jaw. We didn’t really know much about them, but we’d heard intriguing reports. So, on our way to Calgary for Christmas, we allowed an extra day to stop and check them out. I recommend the adventure!

Beneath the streets of downtown Moose Jaw, a complicated series of tunnels hold some fascinating—and disturbing—stories of our own Canadian history. The city has shrewdly turned these dark secrets into a tourist attraction that entertains and enlightens. Part museum, part theater, the tunnels include multimedia and even animatronics.

In the “Chicago Connection” tour, we relived Al Capone’s bootlegging days. Guests become bootleggers in 1929 who have come to Moose Jaw to buy booze from the Capone organization. Needing to steer clear of the local police chief, “Miss Fanny” led us through her club, Al’s office, and bedroom—both of which hid secret escape routes—until we ended up in an underground tunnel. The only one who knew the way out was the lovable Gus, one of Capone’s goons, complete with “Joizey” accent.This tour began on the opposite side of the street from where it ended, proving that the tunnels truly do go right under the streets.

The tunnels were the work of Chinese railway workers who’d dug them decades earlier so they could hide whenever officials decided to collect the notorious head tax. The “Passage to Fortune” tour tells the story of these immigrants. Population pressure, political instability, and poverty brought many Chinese people to Canada seeking a better life. Chinese labor played a major role in the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway, which reached Moose Jaw in 1882. With that project finished, many Chinese ended up living and working in laundries in these tunnels because—as harsh a life as it was, it beat the discrimination and hatred they endured above ground. The conditions they lived in and the near impossibility of moving up can only be described as slavery. Certainly, it was human trafficking and a shameful, dark blot on our history. This story needs to be told, and you won’t find it in our Canadian History textbooks—at least, you didn’t in my day. The tales left me with a new appreciation for what many Chinese endured, passing down an irrepressible spirit of determination to their descendants. 

At the end of the tour, we could ask questions, and I wish I had. I think we felt too subdued by the somber story. Later, I wondered several things. Were the tables, benches and bunks the actual ones used by the immigrants? Was a lot of that stuff left down there? When were these tunnels “discovered?” What went on in between the time they quit being used and the time they were developed for tours? In what condition were they found?

If you go, perhaps you can ask my questions and let me know!

The Tunnels of Moose Jaw are a family friendly attraction offering an experience like no other. Tickets are available from their website www.tunnelsofmoosejaw.com and cost $15.00 per tour or $25.00 for both. They offer discounted tickets for seniors, youth, and children, with no charge for kids five and under.