Writers who are men have been grossly misrepresented by the Press, biographers and frustrated critics. Not all of them are depressive philandering alcoholics who torture their wives when alive and then drop dead suddenly, leaving their families in debt. Actually, they make great partners with whom you can have long, happy and fulfilling marriages. Go ahead, ask my wife.
Here’s why.
They handle rejection well
With a writer, the hackneyed “I have a headache” ploy needn’t be employed at all. So, say, he gets frisky having read a deeply moving passage about loss and redemption from his own book while you just want to watch a re-run of Seinfeld. Fret not. Hit him repeatedly on the head with his hardback edition and point to the bathroom. He won’t mind it one bit. He’s used to it. He’s got 146 rejections letters from publishers, editors, lit fest organisers and journos. And that’s just in the last week.
They’re easy to convince
It’s relatively easy to negotiate with a writer. You want to invest that surprise inheritance that came your way in a tiny plot of land while he is adamant about wanting to use it all up to buy a large train-set so he can play station master in the living room when he’s not writing. What do you do? Hold his latest book in one hand and the one favourable review he’s got (which you paid for) in the other. Wave them gently in front of his face and say your piece in a soothing voice. Ten minutes, tops. He’ll sign.
They give you lots of time for yourself
A writer’s wife can have all the time in the world for crocodile-hunting and bare-knuckle boxing (or hair and nails, if that’s her thing), if she plays her cards right. Invest in a collapsible dais, a microphone, three to four plastic chairs and a few inflatable dolls. A do-it-yourself literature festival, in other words. Seat husband, set up the inflatable audience, activate microphone, ask meaningful question about his work, leave. No need to hurry back. He’ll be busy for the next three or four hours even when he finds the Q&A not as lively as he’d hoped.
They’re easy to divert
Who among us hasn’t found ourselves in a tight corner with the husband? Like, say, in a moment of weakness you’ve promised your mother that she and Aunt Sachchu (the one he hates so much, he tried poisoning her at your wedding) can tag along on your holiday. He’s livid. Not to worry. Just tell him his editor called.
For the next eighteen hours (minimum), he will be so busy trying – in vain, of course – to get in touch with her via phone, WhatsApp, FB, Twitter, monkey mail and jungle tom-toms that, at the end of it, he won’t mind if he and Aunt Sachchu, with her garlic breath and leonine snore, have to share a bed at the resort.
They’re not afraid of displaying their feelings
Ladies, your search for that elusive man who is not afraid to show his feelings stops right here! Writers cry easily. Don’t believe me? Show him a good review, an award, an entry into a bestseller list, a large advance that any other writer has got. But make sure you have adequate absorbent material at hand. Because he will ugly-cry like Nirupa Roy.
They’ll be okay if you lie
We all lie. Problems arise only when we get caught, especially by a spouse with archaic notions like trust and yearly filing of IT returns. But with a writer spouse you can lie, and do so blatantly, repeatedly and in contravention of all laws of physics and get away with it. Here’s how. If he catches you lying, you just ask “What’s your genre?” He says, “Fiction” and you say “Mine, too.” And if he says, “Non-fiction,” you say, “Well, mine’s fiction, so there.” Case closed.
They don’t mind the odd felony
If the cutlery in your house sports unrecognisable, multiple initials, or if the pillow cases have the Sheraton logo embroidered on them – like most of our homes do – he’s not someone who’ll make a big issue of it. Because he knows that for every dubious fork in your drawer or “pre-owned” towel in your cupboard, there’s a passage/idea in his book whose parentage he’d rather you didn’t bring up.
They make great travel companions
You like to travel comfortably. You want your eight favourite pairs of shoes on your vacation. And the ninth one because it goes with everything. Even if it means extra baggage. Well, good for you, because writers are great at heavy lifting. Carrying remaindered stock, unsold hardcover editions, wads of rejection letters, scrapbooks of obscure achievements, trunksful of ugly, useless lit fest memorabilia, and, on the odd occasion, an editor or two piggyback to the hilltop venue of an altitudinous lit fest, have made their knees and back strong. Your extra suitcases are a cinch.
They are easy to scare
A good honest threat every once in a while is the cornerstone of all stable marriages. All writers are absolute scaredy cats. Especially the ones that puff their chests out at lit fests and take up issues. Little bully-cowards, all. If they carry the grandeur hangover of a book launch or literary do too far and get out of control at home, restore the balance by telling them, “Listen, don’t make me call your editor, okay?” They will revert to being their usual pipsqueaky selves in under a minute.
They are easy to pick gifts for
No endless thinking about what to get him for a birthday, anniversary or death. The writer is the one-gift-for-all-seasons guy. Get yourself 100 numbers of a combo pack containing a mug with “World’s Greatest Writer” on it, a copy of his own book, and a bottle of booze. Whip one out as and when required. He’ll be your eternal slave.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). While he enjoyed his last birthday gift, he wondered why his bottle of whisky was only half full. He is okay now because his wife has told him why: his editor deducted the other half at source.
Here’s why.
They handle rejection well
With a writer, the hackneyed “I have a headache” ploy needn’t be employed at all. So, say, he gets frisky having read a deeply moving passage about loss and redemption from his own book while you just want to watch a re-run of Seinfeld. Fret not. Hit him repeatedly on the head with his hardback edition and point to the bathroom. He won’t mind it one bit. He’s used to it. He’s got 146 rejections letters from publishers, editors, lit fest organisers and journos. And that’s just in the last week.
They’re easy to convince
It’s relatively easy to negotiate with a writer. You want to invest that surprise inheritance that came your way in a tiny plot of land while he is adamant about wanting to use it all up to buy a large train-set so he can play station master in the living room when he’s not writing. What do you do? Hold his latest book in one hand and the one favourable review he’s got (which you paid for) in the other. Wave them gently in front of his face and say your piece in a soothing voice. Ten minutes, tops. He’ll sign.
They give you lots of time for yourself
A writer’s wife can have all the time in the world for crocodile-hunting and bare-knuckle boxing (or hair and nails, if that’s her thing), if she plays her cards right. Invest in a collapsible dais, a microphone, three to four plastic chairs and a few inflatable dolls. A do-it-yourself literature festival, in other words. Seat husband, set up the inflatable audience, activate microphone, ask meaningful question about his work, leave. No need to hurry back. He’ll be busy for the next three or four hours even when he finds the Q&A not as lively as he’d hoped.
They’re easy to divert
Who among us hasn’t found ourselves in a tight corner with the husband? Like, say, in a moment of weakness you’ve promised your mother that she and Aunt Sachchu (the one he hates so much, he tried poisoning her at your wedding) can tag along on your holiday. He’s livid. Not to worry. Just tell him his editor called.
For the next eighteen hours (minimum), he will be so busy trying – in vain, of course – to get in touch with her via phone, WhatsApp, FB, Twitter, monkey mail and jungle tom-toms that, at the end of it, he won’t mind if he and Aunt Sachchu, with her garlic breath and leonine snore, have to share a bed at the resort.
They’re not afraid of displaying their feelings
Ladies, your search for that elusive man who is not afraid to show his feelings stops right here! Writers cry easily. Don’t believe me? Show him a good review, an award, an entry into a bestseller list, a large advance that any other writer has got. But make sure you have adequate absorbent material at hand. Because he will ugly-cry like Nirupa Roy.
They’ll be okay if you lie
We all lie. Problems arise only when we get caught, especially by a spouse with archaic notions like trust and yearly filing of IT returns. But with a writer spouse you can lie, and do so blatantly, repeatedly and in contravention of all laws of physics and get away with it. Here’s how. If he catches you lying, you just ask “What’s your genre?” He says, “Fiction” and you say “Mine, too.” And if he says, “Non-fiction,” you say, “Well, mine’s fiction, so there.” Case closed.
They don’t mind the odd felony
If the cutlery in your house sports unrecognisable, multiple initials, or if the pillow cases have the Sheraton logo embroidered on them – like most of our homes do – he’s not someone who’ll make a big issue of it. Because he knows that for every dubious fork in your drawer or “pre-owned” towel in your cupboard, there’s a passage/idea in his book whose parentage he’d rather you didn’t bring up.
They make great travel companions
You like to travel comfortably. You want your eight favourite pairs of shoes on your vacation. And the ninth one because it goes with everything. Even if it means extra baggage. Well, good for you, because writers are great at heavy lifting. Carrying remaindered stock, unsold hardcover editions, wads of rejection letters, scrapbooks of obscure achievements, trunksful of ugly, useless lit fest memorabilia, and, on the odd occasion, an editor or two piggyback to the hilltop venue of an altitudinous lit fest, have made their knees and back strong. Your extra suitcases are a cinch.
They are easy to scare
A good honest threat every once in a while is the cornerstone of all stable marriages. All writers are absolute scaredy cats. Especially the ones that puff their chests out at lit fests and take up issues. Little bully-cowards, all. If they carry the grandeur hangover of a book launch or literary do too far and get out of control at home, restore the balance by telling them, “Listen, don’t make me call your editor, okay?” They will revert to being their usual pipsqueaky selves in under a minute.
They are easy to pick gifts for
No endless thinking about what to get him for a birthday, anniversary or death. The writer is the one-gift-for-all-seasons guy. Get yourself 100 numbers of a combo pack containing a mug with “World’s Greatest Writer” on it, a copy of his own book, and a bottle of booze. Whip one out as and when required. He’ll be your eternal slave.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). While he enjoyed his last birthday gift, he wondered why his bottle of whisky was only half full. He is okay now because his wife has told him why: his editor deducted the other half at source.
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