Lauren and I got engaged in her final semester at BYU. In the waning days of that semester, she was drafting a huge paper on Eleanor Roosevelt and advice columns she used to write. I was an English major and writer, so Lauren asked me to read her paper and offer comments. It was probably after my second comment that she said, “Well, this was a bad idea. You can give it back. I don’t need any more comments.” Since that time, either of us reading the other has been, uh, problematic.
Recently, she read one of my stories and said something like, “I mean, it was goooood, but …”
“Oh, here it comes,” I said.
“Well, it’s just that you rarely let anyone into your characters’ thoughts. It’s all dialogue and description and your characters doing weird stuff like smacking their lips.”
“I have never had a single character smack their lips.”
“Maybe it was pursing their lips. I don’t know. But if I wanted just dialogue and action, I would watch a movie. A book can take you into a person’s mind and thoughts.”
We celebrated this conversation because it did not devolve into eye rolling, heavy sighs, accusations, and “Maybe you just shouldn’t read my stuff” comments.
Equally problematic can be gift giving. One Christmas, I romantically hung a ring on the Christmas tree—gold with channel-set diamonds. It was a very Kay Jewelers moment. And then Lauren said, “Did you keep the receipt? I don’t really like it. I want to exchange it for a watch. I mean, it was a really nice thought and very well executed. I just don’t love it and I need a new watch.” You see, kids, every kiss begins with a gift receipt, not a K.
Lauren loves spinning. She really coveted a bike like her mother had. So for Christmas five years ago, I got her a spin bike. It was not what her mother had, but it was what I could afford.
“It’s been a great gift! I’ve used it to death!” she tells me even now.
But it was never the right one, and roughly four years ago, a Peloton became “the right one.” This year for her birthday, I asked what she wanted. She laughed and said, “I mean, I would love a Peloton.”
I took this as a joke. After twenty-five years, you’d think I’d know better. Two days later, she sat me down to explain, “I found a refurb Peloton with the same warranty as a new one. I can do $89 a month interest free—”
“Oh for crying out loud!”
Now we own a Peloton. It sits next to the other bike, which it mocks for not being “good enough.” I sometimes see rust tears pouring down the original’s wheel.
In the meantime, I wrote a novel. It is not like my regular writing—it’s a murder mystery with elements of horror and supernatural mixed in. It’s long with branching storylines and oodles of characters. No one smacks their lips. I want people to read this book. I want my family to read it. I want to hear that it’s the greatest thing I have written, that the ending was a shock, that it should be a TV miniseries. I sent it to everyone, and the girls have all started it. To her credit, Lucia read through earlier drafts. But it is apparently so uncompelling that no one has progressed more than ten percent. At one point, Lauren declared, “It is your best writing. I can hear the podcaster’s voice.” Readers, she had read page one where my podcaster character introduces the story. It was such an amazing page one that she had not made it to page two.
As this back and forth has taken place, I have continued to make comments about the Peloton.
“What are you doing for exercise today?”
“A spin class on my new bike!”
“Doesn’t the gold-plated seat hurt your ass?”
You can see where this is going, right? Yes, we reached a truce. I would shut up about the Peloton if Lauren would actually read the book. And wow is that deal going great! Why, just the other night, we agreed on a show to watch, but Lauren said, “Before we watch it, I’m going to read your book for a while.” Great!
Twenty minutes later, I looked over to see this:
Yeah, that’s my book open on her phone.
No, readers, I am not offended or hurt! This is great market feedback! Rather than go to a big publisher or agent and try to score the dream contract, I know exactly where to take my work.
Look for me soon on the Calm app, readers. I’ve been called monotone and boring my whole life. Time to put that magical monotone voice to work on Sleep Stories. The last thing you’ll hear before knocking off will be, “Antonio Romano aimed the gun at the man’s head.” You’ll never know whether he pulls the trigger.
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His Smile Lit Up a Room and Other Things to Say at My Funeral 