Deborah Anderson

In 2000, Deborah Anderson left the medical field to care for her elderly mother. Soon after, she began writing. Her articles have appeared in Cross Times, Focus on the Family, Sisters in the Lord, Riders and Reapers, Rainbow Faith, FaithWriters’ Books, FaithWriters’ Magazine, and the bulletins for Dayspring Foursquare Church. She is a member of TWV, ACFW, CWG, and FCW and is currently working on her first novel. Married 29 years, Deborah and her husband enjoy country living in the Midwest. She also spends her time rescuing cats, reading novels, and taking nature walks. You can contact Deborah at DAnderson955 [at] aol [dot] com.

Pecked, Perturbed, and Pushed to Production

Well, it’s official. I finished a book in a month. I actually completed my project before the deadline, so I started on the sequel. I still have much rewriting to do before either are marketable, but I’m on the right track. Let me tell you, though, it wasn’t easy. As usual, everything that could get in my way tried to.

Not even halfway through the project, I developed a sinus/ear infection. Have you ever tried to write while the room feels as though it’s spinning? It’s not something I care to repeat again, that’s for sure.

Many other things happened as well (I won’t bore you with the details), and they were quite discouraging. There were several times I wanted to quit. My husband tried to encourage me on those days—using reverse psychology.

Bless his pea-pickin’ heart.

I told the folks in my writing group to give me a swift kick in the pants to keep me moving, but I didn’t tell my beloved to partake in this activity.

The nerve.

Anyway, one particular day, he came home from work and found me sitting in our office, rocking in my trusty chair—with my eyes closed. “Did you write anything today?”

Rock. Rock. “No, I’m thinking.”

“Looks like you’re dozing to me.”

Can’t a woman think with her eyes closed?

“Well, I’m tired, and I have been sick, you know.”

“I know, honey, but you’d better get to writing if you want to make your goal today.”

Whatever happened to offering a sick person a bowl of chicken soup? Okay, so I don’t like chicken soup, but it could have been cream of potato or something.

I continued rocking.

A few minutes later, he sat down at his desk, located across the room from mine, and also on the other side of my rocker. He began hammering away on his keyboard.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

My eyes popped open.

The more he pecked the more perturbed I grew. I guess it was because I knew I should have been the one typing, not him. Not only that, hadn’t he seen me sleeping in the chair when he got home?

Oh, wait. I was supposed to be thinking, wasn’t I?

Peck. Peck. Peck.

Rock. Rock. Rock.

I sat up on the edge of my seat. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m writing.”

“You’re what?”

“I don’t mean like the kind of writing you do; I’m working on something else.”

I narrowed my eyes and stared at his back. “Since when?”

“Oh, I’ve been working on this for a while now.”

“Yeah, right.” I’m on to you, sweetheart.

“I have.”

Peck. Peck. Peck.

I wanted to get up and smack, smack, smack something. But I didn’t. I decided to leave the room instead.

He swiveled around in his chair. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere quiet where I can take a nap.” I headed for the bedroom and shut the door.

As I lay in bed, I thought about how I never notice the constant clicking of the keys when I’m writing, yet when he sat there typing away, it felt like a thousand bass drums going off in my head. I dismissed the thought and grabbed the remote to turn on the fan, knowing it would help me to snooze.

Thirty minutes later, as I lay there with my foot jiggling and my fingers tapping against the blanket, I decided to abandon my leisure. I threw the covers to the side, bolted out of bed, and walked back into the office. I plopped down on the chair in front of my computer.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

The man was like the Energizer Bunny, still going strong.

The keys suddenly stopped, and because I was so used to the rhythm, I nearly fell out of my seat.

“Couldn’t sleep, honey?” he said.

Reaching for the button on my brain box, I punched it hard, booting up my computer. “No.”

“Oh. Are you going to write now?”

Are you going to write now?

“Maybe.” Of course, I knew I was, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

He resumed clicking, and I opened the file for my WIP. I began typing away. Lost in my own work, I no longer heard what he was doing.

Less than ten minutes later, he stopped, got up from his desk, and sat in my recliner.

Rock. Rock. Rock.

And I suddenly noticed the springs as they squeaked, squeaked, squeaked.

I swiveled around in my chair. “What are you doing now?”

He lifted his hands in the air. “I’m just resting.” He turned to look at me. “Am I bothering you?”

As a matter of fact, you are.

“No, I’m just trying to think.”And unlike earlier, I really was trying to stimulate my brain cells this time.

He got up and sighed. “I guess I’ll go into the bedroom then.”

Oh, sure. Now that you’ve got me awake and moving, you’re going to go to sleep.

I pictured him on the bed, lying in front of the fan, all cozy and drifting away—the place where I wanted to be earlier.

The nerve.

My fingers sprang to life and flew across the keyboard. In less than an hour, I had my word count in for the day.

I shut down my computer, got up from my desk, and went into the bedroom. Thinking he was sleeping, I quietly crawled into bed next to him and closed my eyes. I felt my body sinking into a cloud. That’s what I’m talking about.

“Did you get your writing done?” he said.

My eyes popped open again. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping yet.”

“Yes. I’m done.”

He patted me on the leg. “I knew you could do it, dear.”

Can you believe that? The man pecked, perturbed, and pushed me into production, and he knew exactly what he was doing the whole time.

He knows me well.

The nerve.