A Long Road

Thirteen years ago, in the early evening, Faiyaz and I walked through Manhattan. Shops were trying to close early, most people were headed to Times Square. We went into a hotel lobby. No one stopped to see if we were guests, so we went up an escalator, and up to a second floor ballroom. It was empty. There, in the same room we had met in eight months earlier, Faiyaz officially proposed, and I said yes.

We had been talking about marriage for about a month prior to that. We did not have very many definite plans. We would live in Florida because the cost of living was cheaper. We would finish our bachelor degrees. We both wanted a large family, and to start having kids early. Oh, and we knew that I would write.

While dating, Faiyaz had already been given several cheesy poems. He knew my goals and dreams for writing, and supported them wholeheartedly. From the beginning, the plan was for me to write. We both wanted for me to be home with the kids while they were young, but for me to balance writing at the same time. When we made that plan, I don't think either of us understood what that would mean, what starting a writing career would look like, what that would take.

Several years ago, I read an article on a study about how long it took several successful fantasy writers to get their first book published. The average was 10.5 years. That gave me comfort at a time I felt like I was pounding on a door that would never open.

Yesterday I was thinking back to when I wrote my first novel, the accomplishment that for me marks the serious beginning of my efforts at writing. It was just a few months after the birth of my first child, the summer after I graduated with my BA in English (concentration in creative writing).

That summer was ten and a half years ago. My first book was published this month. I guess that makes me average. I don't really know what happens yet...will I sell another nonfiction book? Will I sell my novel? I do know I will keep writing, and that I will be trying to sell another book. There will always be another book.

I know how those ten and a half years felt for me, what the work and frustration and seeking to improve were like. I do not know how they felt for Faiyaz. I know what he's done.

When, while writing that first novel, a well-meaning friend asked "Why don't you stop writing so you have more time to clean your house?" Faiyaz laughed, and vacuumed the living room.

When I eagerly sent out over seventy query letters for that first book, and got back about the same number of rejections (minus those who did not reply at all) and I sagged under the weight of those rejections, Faiyaz just asked what I would do next. When would I start writing again?

When I started a second novel, typing while nursing my second baby, only a month old, a relative asked if I was sure I wanted to write then. Why not rest more? Faiyaz watched the pages pile up, along with the dishes. I finished a draft in about two months.

When I'd revised that novel, and had researched a conference where I could pitch it, Faiyaz made a way for me to go. He also helped me pack, and pick out a new purse.

When the agent who'd requested the full manuscript at that conference (the agent I'd researched meticulously and read several interviews by, the agent I really wanted) sent a vaguely worded rejection letter, Faiyaz was there. He watched me grieve this slightly more personal rejection, from a person I'd met face to face and whom I really liked,

When I was pregnant with my third child, and mentioned a writing workshop being held by a writer I liked in our state, Faiyaz researched it, and sent in the application for me. He was so excited to show me the acceptance letter. Then he drove me three hours south, and dropped me off, leaving to spend four days as a single parent with two young kids.

When I finished writing my fourth novel, and I wanted to bid on a charity auction where an agent would critique the novel, Faiyaz was there with me, even though it was money that could be spent elsewhere, on other things.

When I got the critique back, Faiyaz read through it with me. He listened as I made my revision plans, then held down the fort while I revised. And revised. And revised.

When I sent out a hand full of queries, and got back a handful of rejections, I went back to advice I'd been given from a former teacher. I did a little research. I tentatively suggested grad school, even though it would mean a lot of debt, and that scared me. Faiyaz enthusiastically encouraged me, even as we looked realistically at the cost. I found a program, and applied.

When I left to go to residency, Faiyaz managed the home. The first residency, in the summer, the girls went to stay with family. In January for the second residency, Faiyaz took two weeks off to be a stay at home dad...and did it better than I do.

When we found out we were expecting our fourth child, and I told Faiyaz I didn't want to take time off from grad school, Faiyaz supported that. For my third residency, Faiyaz came with our beautiful month old baby so I could nurse between lectures. A faculty member said to me, in amazement, "You're really here!" I realized she meant I was there, going to every lecture and reading, even though my husband and baby were there too. The faculty was very supportive. Faiyaz was a rockstar.

When I decided to send in a book proposal for this nonfiction book, Faiyaz watched. He gave me room and space. Even though I was still working on my MFA, even though I wasn't sure I could do both, he was sure. He believed.

When I graduated, Faiyaz drove from Virginia to Minnesota with four children by himself to see my reading and to watch me graduate. It meant so much to have my husband and four girls there, watching me graduate.

When I started teaching, and began the juggling act of nonfiction book writing and paper grading, Faiyaz gave me time. If I needed a kid free Saturday, writing at the library, he gave it. If I was camped out on the couch writing, he took care of the kids, made them do their chores, and brought me a grilled cheese sandwich.

When the subject of the book began to mess with me, he listened. When I had a phone interview, he kept the kids busy and quiet. When I felt overwhelmed and frustrated, he listened.

Ten and a half years. Six books. One book published.

What does it feel like to be the support system, the perpetual cheerleader, the one to pick up the slack, for ten and a half years while your spouse chases a dream?

Some spouses may be bitter, they may recent the time that writing has taken. I've known writers with spouses like that. But Faiyaz? Faiyaz is in my corner, ever my support, ever my biggest believer.

Sometimes he believes more than I do.

"I think I'm going to do a book proposal for one of the nonfiction books I want to write"

"What about your novel?"

"I think I'd have a better chance with another nonfiction book."

"But don't you want to sell your novel?"

"It just feels selfish to work on a novel when I know I can sell a nonfiction book."

"Be selfish."

Over the years, he's gently asked why I'm not writing, what my goals are, what I'm writing next. He's given me time and space to create, he's shown our girls that what I'm doing is important and has value. When I'm behind and struggling to catch up, he's held things together at home and picked up the slack. He's put as much time and money and work into this as I have.

As 2016 ends, as the day we started our journey on has come again, as I hit the 10.5 years statistic for publishing a first book, as I make plans for 2017 and share them with Faiyaz, I know he's going to help me meet those goals. I know that my successes are in a large part thanks to him. And I'm so grateful for all that love and support. Being a writer isn't easy, it's hard work and painful, it's frustrating and overwhelming. I'm sure being married to a writer is much the same.