Danny is off work this week and making his way through his to-do list of projects around the house. I'm very fortunate to have married such a domesticated man (though he wasn't always that way). Today's project is steam-cleaning carpets, a back-to-school tradition. They look beautiful, but let's just say my concentration has not been at its highest. As I was putting some items into my calendar, I chuckled at this quote by E.B. White, realizing that although I am a woman, my family treats me—and my writing—the same as his.
A girl pushing a carpet sweeper under my typewriter table has never annoyed me particularly, nor has it taken my mind off my work, unless the girl was unusually pretty or unusually clumsy. My wife, thank God, has never been protective of me, as, I am told, the wives of some writers are. In consequence, the members of my household never pay the slightest attention to my being a writing man—they make all the noise and fuss they want to. If I get sick of it, I have places I can go.