My Husband, This Author’s Editor-in-Chief

My Husband, This Author’s Editor-in-Chief

My husband and I started working together in our outlet grocery store right after we got married, but our largest work-related argument happened before we were even engaged.

Sorting through HBA (Health Beauty Aids), I discovered a box of miniature toothpastes—the kind kids take along to camp—that were slimy with detergent.

I proceeded to fill a bucket with warm water and meticulously wash each toothpaste until they all no longer smelled like cleaner.

I was an hour into this project when my boyfriend (now my husband) came up to the top portion of the store to see how I was doing. Proud of my progress, I showed him the box of toothpastes that I had cleaned and dried.

He smiled and nodded. And then he saw the ones that I was dipping into the bucket. They were creating a Jacuzzi’s worth of suds.

“Were they around cleaner?” he asked.

“Detergent.”

“They’ll have to be pitched.”

I plopped the toothpastes down into the bucket and wiped my face where they’d splashed. “You’re kidding me.”

“’Fraid not. They’ll still taste like cleaner; it doesn’t matter how long you scrub.”

I felt like he did not appreciate my work. However, the hourly wage he was paying me was not balanced by what he would’ve accrued, selling the miniature toothpastes four for a dollar.

But I was never too great at math and common sense was never my strong suit, especially when I was frustrated.

I dumped the box of toothpastes into the trashcan and looked up at my boyfriend with my hands on my hips, my expression saying, “Happy now?”

In reply to this display of nonverbal sass, my boyfriend said nothing, just grinned and went back down to the food section of the store.

Less than an hour later, I went down to find him and give him an apologetic hug.

Almost seven years have passed since the toothpaste incident, but I still like to remember it from time to time, as it shows me exactly why my husband is my first reader of whatever manuscript I’m currently working on.

Right now, my husband is editing behind me by about a hundred and fifty pages. He usually doesn’t line edit my work but just highlights sections that don’t make sense.

However, this particular story revolves around an Old Order Mennonite community in Montana whose pacifists beliefs are put to the test when a calamity has them fighting for their lives.

Guns are involved. And certain methods of survival. I honestly knew little about both topics before I began but have researched enough to have some idea of what I’m writing about.

Or, so I thought.

The other night, my husband and I were sitting in the living room, editing my story from our separate laptops. My husband peered over his laptop and said, “You can’t shoot elk down in the lower region. They’re up higher, in the mountains. Plus, it’s at night. You can’t hunt at night.”

I glanced over my laptop. “He’s just trying to keep her from getting scared of the gunshots.”

“What if he tells her they’re firecrackers?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later: “This scene where the looters are standing in line? Looters don’t stand in line. They smash and grab and run.”

“The ice-cream scene?”

He nodded. “Plus, they’d run off with the whole container. They wouldn’t be divvying out scoops to each other.”

“It’s in the beginning, before things get really bad. It’s like a party atmosphere.”

“Yeah, throw a party. That’s good. Just don’t have them all standing in a line, eating ice-cream.” He grinned. “Were you having a pregnancy craving when you wrote this?”

My eyes narrowed to a squint, and I contemplated firing him as my first editor-in-chief.

But the trouble is, I’m not exactly paying him, and he continues tackling these mammoth projects because he loves me.

Not because critiquing my sentences and seeing my eyes shoot fire is his favorite pastime.

Then again, maybe it is.

Nevertheless, whenever I have a hard time swallowing his feedback, I remember how—seven years ago—he told me to chuck the miniature toothpastes because he didn’t want his customers foaming at the mouth every time they brushed their teeth.

I was so honed in on the little project right in front of me, I had a hard time seeing the bigger picture and got mad at him, even though now I know he was right.

And that’s what an unbiased viewpoint is for during the first read-through of a manuscript, even when sometimes it makes you want to fire your husband simply because he does his editing job too well . . . and also because you have a hard time taking criticism without scorching him with your eyes.

Have you ever worked with your spouse or with a family member? If so, any stories to share? 🙂