Even though she has worked in publishing for her entire adult life, I don’t think my wife really knew what she was getting into when she agreed to marry me. She’d been a publicist, she’d listened to writers confess their fears, rejoice at hitting the bestseller list, complain about room service in their hotel, and bloviate about slights real and imagined. Now she was married to a writer; one not necessarily prone to whining, but one who, like all writers, does have bloviant tendencies.
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