Entry 4:

"Why are you being so melodramatic?" he asks. "Why are you so over-emotional?"

"I just think it's stupid; it's a niche market. You'll never make any money there."

"It's weird. You're writing porn. How did you even think of this? Where do you get these ideas? What would ever make you think of this?"

"Who put these ideas in your head?"

"I just think it's weird."

"You didn't come up with this on your own, did you?"

Why am I trying to argue with him? To convince him his opinion matters? Because it does. It's supposed to. But, maybe it shouldn't.

"Why are you being such a cunt?"

"God! Take a chill pill, would you?"

"The average book is, like, 1,000 pages. You're never going to make it if you keep writing this small-time stuff. What makes you even think you could publish?"

"But, it's not," I say in a small voice. "I mean, maybe if you're talking about Game of Thrones or Harry Potter, yeah...but the average book is more like 300 pages"

"No, it isn't," you reply, so sure of yourself, as always; so unwilling to compromise.

"I think, I really think, I could have something here," I begin again, but I am crying now and you are getting angier.

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing! I just….we're talking about my work and it's important to me; I don't understand why it's not important to you." I try to explain.

"For who? I mean, who would even want to read this? It's such a small market."

"Really?" I explode. "FIfty Shades of Grey?! Penthouse?! You think Playboy is small? These are million-dollar markets we're talking about, with huge readership. Silhouette, Harlequin…" I have come prepared for this argument.

"Yeah, but how much could they possibly pay? You're not going to make any money."

"Last year's story submission contest to Playboy paid out three grand. That seems pretty significant to me." I expecct you to be surprised, stunned into silence by my revelation. But, of course, predictably, you are not. You simply continue on, changing tact…...

You really believe that you are never wrong.

"You're writing again? Don't you think you ought to give it a rest?"

"I just don't understand why you're doing it."

"You'd better cool it."

Everything you say comes as a warning. Why are you so scared?

"You're just tired. You should stop staying up so late."

I want to stamp my foot like a five-year-old and scream:

"I do NOT need a nap!"

Even though I do. Even though I am exhausted; not from the writing or the long hours, but by the fighting with him. He is exhausting. Debating and anticipating, analyzing and re-analyzing what I said and why I said it, thinking over every phrase, reflecting on intonation and tone, on INTENTION. Trying to debate with someone who is NEVER going to say I'm right or admit a difference of opinion or begin to compromise.