Last Thursday I started crying next to some rando on my plane ride to Phoenix. I'm not really proud of it.
I've been reading, off and on, Stephen King's "On Writing”.
There is a moment when he tells the story about getting the Carrie deal in '73 after his wife, Tabitha, fished the original manuscript out of the trash can, buried beneath cigarette ash and beer cans. I couldn't keep it together. After scraping by on next to nothing for years with wife and children, the guy got a four hundred thousand dollar deal with Signet Books. He bought Tabby a hair-drier to celebrate.
King talks about the support his wife has been to him from the very beginning of his career:
"My wife made a crucial difference during those two years I spent teaching at Hampden (and washing sheets at New Franklin Laundry during the summer vacation). If she had suggested that the time I spent writing stories on the front porch of our rented house on Pond Street or in the laundry room of our rented trailer on Klatt Road in Hermon was wasted time, I think a lot of the heart would have gone out of me. Tabby never voiced a single doubt, however. Her support was a constant, one of the few good things I could take as a given. And whenever I see a first novel dedicated to a wife (or a husband), I smile and think, 'There's someone who knows.' Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don't have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough."
It makes me think of my wife, Brandi. I'm no Steven King as a writer or a success, but there's no way I'd be doing what I'm doing without Brandi. If anyone has enjoyed this Levi The Poet project, she deserves more thanks than anyone.
So, thanks Brandi, for believing.