I think I might be cheating on my husband. With dead people.

We’ve been in something of a rough patch lately, not because we lack affection for each other, but because one of us—whom I shall call ME—has been grumpy. See, I’m a writer. A dang good writer. My queries are generating requests, and I’m 13,000 words in on the sequel.  It’s a bad time for life to start pelting me with rocks, but that’s exactly what’s happening. Too many distractions, too many demands. The inability to find time to write is turning my mood to a purulent mess.

It festered and popped last week. I did what every temperamental writer does at least twice a year: I shoved my research into a box and declared, “I quit!”  My characters were just going to have to wait. After all, they don’t control me. It was time they learn who’s boss. I decided to reward my husband for putting up with me. A trip was in order.

Looking back, I guess Valley Forge wasn’t the best place for a romantic get-away. And I suppose stopping off at the Colonial Plantation near Newtown Square was playing with fire. And certainly, touring Hopewell Furnace, an 18th century iron plantation, wasn’t my best idea. By the time we crawled into the king-size bed at the Holiday Inn Express, there were four of us: me, my unsuspecting husband, and two Colonial characters named Edward and Henry McConnell.

Undaunted, I remained committed to quitting.

I tried. I really did. But yesterday, as I sat at a bridal shower discussing 18th century leavening agents, I realized maybe it’s hopeless.

My name is Julie, and I’m a writer. I share my home with my husband. And a couple of dead guys.

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