Barbara J. Hamby

Late Blooming Writer

Since most of my writing has been done in the last fifteen years, I have called myself a late-blooming writer. Now I’m surrendering that title to my companion-housemate, who has recently started writing his memoirs at the age of 75. Once he started, it became a stronger addiction than beer or chocolate.

However, I’m delighted. Now he understands about interruptions and derailed trains of thought. Each of us tries not to interrupt the other at the computer. The final upshot is that I have more time to spend on my writing. Also, on the rare occasions when we cook, he helps prepare vegetables and helps with cleanup.

I didn’t exactly get my life-long wish for a wife fulfilled, but this arrangement is a pretty satisfactory substitute.

Since I work at home now, I no longer spend time applying makeup and I envy my housemate’s balding pate. He doesn’t have to buy shampoo, blow-dry or fuss with hair. Today was my third bad hair day in a row, so it was off to the barbershop. Any trip out leads to other errands and delays the computer session. Now that I’m finally facing the screen, I’m fighting the urge to take a nap.