When my husband, David, and I first got married, I was a scribbler. I scribbled ideas for books in legal pads, notebooks, three-ring binders. I had outlines and chapters and a few completed manuscripts saved on a huge stack of diskettes with carefully coded titles. And they were all ... well, terrible. (I've had about 10 years, my ideas have improved since then.)
My husband wasn't allowed to read any of it. Hence the coded titles. I was afraid he'd think he'd married a delusional lunatic. Or that I wasn't happy with him because I spent my free time creating these perfect, sexy paperback heroes. And still, every time we moved, he dutifully hauled my big box of notebooks and diskettes from house to house without complaint.
When NICE GIRLS DON'T HAVE FANGS sold, David asked, "NOW, will you let me read somethiing you wrote?" I asked him to wait until it was in final edits, so he'd see the best possible version. And by the time the book came out in April, David been involved in a masters course and was up to his eyeballs in criminology textbooks.
So he was finally able to start reading the book late last night. He got through the first chapter, in which Jane is fired from her job as a children's librarian, gets mistaken for a deer on her way home, is shot and left for dead, then gets turned into a vampire.
I sat next to him, trying not to twitch as he read. Every time he laughed out loud was a huge thrill. And when he was done with the chapter, he looked up at said, "It's funny. And it sounds just like you talking to me."
Sounds like a I'm a hit.