I’ve always believed that for every professional project, there are two games being played at once. There’s the official game—the one with deadlines, edits, and clients—and then there’s the real game. The one that happens behind the scenes, fueled by inside jokes, questionable negotiations, and the loving, chaotic support of a spouse who knows exactly which buttons to push. In my house, that spouse is Hubby.
What started as a simple request for feedback on a project of mine quickly spiraled into a formal hostage situation involving my to-do list. This is the real-time chronicle of that saga which I’d shared on my Substack, but I also wanted to include it here for those of you who are not on that platform.
It’s a story about how a single editing deadline devolved into a high-stakes proofreading war, complete with tactical naps, psychological warfare, and an outrageous demand for buttered noodles. This is a peek behind my curtain at the messy, funny, and surprisingly strategic game of Love, Honor, and a Red Pen.
I hope you’re ready for some editing shenanigans. Grab yourself a cup of tea or your beverage of choice and buckle up. This is going to be a long one.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #1: The Stick and Carrot
I have to lodge a formal complaint about the working conditions in this house. So, I have an editing deadline. It's big. It's important. And my ability to procrastinate on it is, frankly, world-class right now. At the same time, I have something I really need Hubby to read for me. You know, for feedback. A simple, reasonable spousal request.
And what does this man do? He turns into a master negotiator. A benevolent tyrant.
He has taken my request hostage. He has officially implemented a carrot-and-stick system. The deal he's put on the table is that if I actually work on my edits, my "reward" will be that he reads the thing I sent him.
The absolute nerve. He is weaponizing my own to-do list against me. He's leveraging my need for his input to force me to be productive.
So now I have to go and actually do my work, not because I'm a disciplined professional, but because I'm being expertly manipulated by my own husband.
Don't you dare tell him his little scheme is working. It's still incredibly mean.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #2: The Great Contract Breach
Okay, you are not going to believe the update on the hostage situation. I need to whinge.
So, the edits are done. I did it. I survived. My brain currently has the consistency of an egg fried on a hundred-degree sidewalk, but the work is FINISHED.
And remember the deal? The whole carrot-and-stick negotiation? My reward for all this hard labor was that Hubby would finally read The Thing.
I tell you what. He. Did. Not. Read. The. Thing.
His excuse? An IOU. A vague, dismissive promise that he'd "read it later." Excuse me, SIR. That was not the deal! The deal was not "I work myself to the bone and you get to it whenever you feel like it." I put in thirteen hours yesterday. THIRTEEN.
Now, I will concede, he gets some points. He was an excellent beverage-butler while I was deep in the editing cave. A steady stream of tea and hot chocolate appeared at my elbow as if by magic. So, he's not a complete monster.
But the contract is broken. The carrot has withered on the vine. I was promised a reader and all I got was a barista. It's the principle of the thing, you know?
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #3: A Pathetic Attempt at Redemption
You guys. Just when I was ready to file a formal grievance with the (non-existent) spousal HR department, I think Hubby is attempting a redemption arc.
He has escalated his efforts from mere beverage-butlering to delivering coffee directly to me. In bed. The man knows his audience. But wait, there’s more.
No, no, let’s not get crazy. He did not read The Thing. Of course not. That particular sin is still very much on his permanent record.
But he’s doing the next best thing. He’s reading the proofs of the monster edit I just finished. And I have to be honest, this is a monumental act of mercy. My brain has moved past the "fried egg" stage and is now extra crispy bacon sizzling in my skull. My eyes have seen this manuscript so many times (three hundred zillion, give or take) that I could stare directly at a typo and not recognize it.
And he's caught a couple already. Okay, fine. That's big. Major hubby bonus points are being awarded.
But let's be very, very clear. A girl can hold a grudge with the tenacity of a bulldog. This heroic proofreading effort is noted and appreciated. But it does not, I repeat, does not absolve him of his original contractual obligation. He still has to read The Thing.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #4: He's Corrupting My Manuscript!
OMG. You guys. The redemption arc has spectacularly derailed.
So, Hubby is still proofing the manuscript. And I must admit, through gritted teeth, that he's an excellent proofer. He's catching things my extra crispy bacon fried brain completely missed.
THE PROBLEM? It’s a SWEET contemporary romance. Sweet. As in, the emotional equivalent of a warm hug. It’s a VERY INTENSE hug, but it’s. Still. A. Hug. As in, the hero is a perfect gentleman and the bedroom door is not just closed, it’s bolted and soundproofed.
But apparently, no one sent this memo to Hubby's naughty-boy brain.
His running commentary is turning my professional project into his personal stand-up routine. It's all snerk, snerk, nudge, nudge, and conspiratorial leers. When the hero and heroine first meet and have a perfectly innocent, butterflies-in-the-stomach moment? The version Hubby described from the hero's point of view was... let's just say it was not rated PG.
I'm trying to maintain my professional composure, and he's literally leaning over my shoulder going, "Oh, you know what he's really thinking right now."
NO, SIR! LIAM DID NOT THINK THAT!! HE IS A GENTLEMAN!
The situation required swift and decisive action. I had to bop him on the head with my teddy bear. And what adult woman doesn't have a teddy bear on hand for exactly these kinds of emergencies? It is an instrument of justice and a source of comfort for when The Thing is still unread, your husband is gleefully corrupting a perfectly sweet love story, and you need to muffle your screams of exasperation in something fluffy.
How am I ever going to look my author client in the eye again? HOW?
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #5: The Unmitigated Gall
Okay, an update on the saga. Are you sitting down? You should probably sit down.
He’s taking a nap.
I’ll wait while you process the absolute, unmitigated GALL of that statement. He. Is. Taking. A. NAP.
Is this not the very definition of slacking on the job? I mean, fine, it’s Sunday. But may I remind the court that I worked THIRTEEN HOURS on Saturday to finish the edits on the very manuscript he is supposed to be proofing? The least he could do is read The Thing. Which, for the record, IS STILL NOT READ. Do not think for one second my silence on the matter equals forgiveness.
But the cheek! The audacity! The sheer nerve of the man to be in there, peacefully snoozing, and then expect me to FEED him. He wants lunch. After his nap. As if he's earned it through his strenuous napping efforts.
On the flip side... and it pains me to concede this... he did say the book is now "damn near perfect." (Ahem. Thank you very much. Did I mention the thirteen hours? I feel like I might have.) Okay, fine. That's a lot of points. That's a get-out-of-jail-almost-free card. I'm sure the author will be thrilled and will want to shower him with praise. And possibly cake.
But what does she know? She doesn’t have to live with the napper.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #6: The Great Cake Heist
I’m sad to report that the napping continues. Hubby is still asleep. It is still Sunday. And I am officially unionizing. I am a disgruntled employee, and my demands will be heard.
This whole situation has me questioning the entire power structure of this operation. Am I the disgruntled employee? Or the exasperated employer? He’s doing the proofs, so he’s working for me. But he’s doing it voluntarily.
Oh, wait. Is it voluntary if he gets paid? Because he gets fed. Every. Single. Day. We’ve been together 28 years, married for 24. Let’s do the math on that... that's over 10,000 days of meals. The man is not working pro bono; he's on a very generous meal plan. I'm pretty sure I'm ahead on this deal.
Which brings me to the topic of performance bonuses. If my author sends him cake--CAKE!--because he uttered the words "damn near perfect," I am staging a coup. That cake is mine. It is righteous appropriation. It is reparations for my thirteen hours of labor versus his multi-hour nap. He does not get to sleep on the job, get his cake, and eat it too. That is my cake.
And dammit, now I want cake.
So, what’s a strategic-thinking wife to do? Do I wake the sleeping giant and risk his wrath? Or do I let him slumber and bask in the glow of his "damn near perfect" assessment a little longer?
...but I’m also getting really hungry.
And it’s perfectly acceptable to wake him if my excuse is to feed him, right? It's an act of love. A Trojan horse of deliciousness.
Heh heh heh… cue evil wife laugh.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #7: The Teddy Bear Smackdown
BREAKING NEWS: The bear has awoken from his slumber.
His very first words, uttered with the gravitas of a man returning from a long and perilous journey, were: "Okay, I’m awake, I’ll continue proofing." This noble declaration was immediately followed by him peering at his sleep app and announcing with immense satisfaction, "Oh wow, that was good deep sleep!"
Oh, I'm so glad. Really. Thrilled for you and your well-rested brain cells. Does this mean peace has been restored to our little kingdom? Hmm… let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Because then, in a moment of wifely transparency, I confessed. I told him about the ongoing hubby saga and how his napping antics are now a source of public amusement on Substack.
His reaction was so predictably, so painfully him. "Well, then I won’t do the proofing," he huffed. "I’m done."
Excuse me? Did I hear that right? Done? Oh no, you don't get to be "done." We have a contract, buddy. It's unwritten, unspoken, and sealed by 28 years of shared fried rice and chicken cashew nut stir fries, but it is iron-clad. This, sir, is a BREACH.
The situation called for immediate disciplinary action. I smacked him with my teddy bear again. He has to be feeling suitably chastised now, right? That fluffy enforcer means business. He better be in there, poring over that manuscript while I go cook the very lunch that will power his proofreading. The nerve.
And as for that other thing that still isn't done... I'll let that sleeping dog lie. For now. Any wife with a few decades of strategic experience knows you don't play all your cards at once. I'll nag him--sorry, I mean, lovingly spring it on him--at a more opportune moment.
After all, we’ve been together 28 years. I know how to pick my battles. And step one in any successful campaign is always, always to make sure the hubby is well-fed and happy. It's just good tactics.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #8: My Secret Weapon
Hubby has been fed. It was a simple lunch of dumplings in a spicy peanut sauce, which is basically a cheat code for a happy husband in this house.
See? I do know how to keep my one and only employee motivated. I should be head of HR. Oh wait, I am. Staff of one, lifetime contract. The benefits package is questionable, but the retirement plan is solid.
And let's be crystal clear: I am the boss of him. Never mind the ongoing stick-and-carrot negotiation where he. Did. Not. Read. The. Thing.
So, I'm in the kitchen, masterfully conducting this dumpling symphony, and of course, Hubby wanders in. He has a new, very serious complaint. "He went to see her and said he wanted to look at the rocking horse again," he reports, deeply concerned. "But all he did was spend the whole afternoon with her! What happened to the rocking horse?"
Bless his literal, crime-thriller-reading heart. I had to gently explain that the rocking horse was an excuse, you lovable dope. It's a stylistic choice. A romance trope. Not every single plot point needs to be interrogated like a murder suspect.
And then, because this man has been my husband for 24 years and is nothing if not predictable, he immediately pivoted down the naughty-boy rabbit hole. "Forget the rocking horse," he declared with a conspiratorial grin. "I know what horse she can ride." Snerk, snerk, wink, wink. My teddy bear was out of reach, sadly. A true missed opportunity for corrective action.
But here’s the real update from my focus group of one. His grand pronouncement? The story is now "unrecognisable" from the draft he originally read.
I had to bite my tongue to stop from saying, "WELL, DUH." My darling, that is what happens after countless rounds of edits between me and my author. It's called work.
But honestly? Here's a pro-editing tip. This is exactly why Hubby is my secret weapon. He's the best kind of reader because this isn't his genre. You throw a sweet contemporary romance at a man who lives on a steady diet of car chases and forensic reports, and he will have OPINIONS. Loud ones.
So yes, let him be naughty-boy-reading-a-romance guy. Let him snerk and wink and complain about unresolved rocking horse subplots. Because when he gets past all that and says he loves it? That’s when I know the book is more than good. It’s perfect. It means my author nailed it, and I did my job right.
Stay tuned. Lunch is over, and my secret weapon is back on the case.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #9: The Agony of Being Right
Okay, you guys. I have an update from the front lines of the proofreading wars, and I am wrestling with a very complex mix of professional triumph and personal humiliation.
We have reached... The First Kiss.
And his reaction? His immediate, out-loud, can't-contain-himself reaction was: "WOW! Now THAT'S a kiss."
I need you to understand the magnitude of this victory. This is a ringing endorsement from the world's toughest critic. My author will be thrilled. I am thrilled! Hubby has proclaimed it A KISS!
And then, because he is who he is, he immediately had to ruin the pure, romantic moment with his naughty-boy brain. "He walked her to the car?" he scoffed. "I know where I'd be walking her after THAT KISS, and it is not to the car." Please, just take a moment to visualize me doing a facepalm that could be felt across continents.
BUT. Here is the part that pains me. The part I have to admit through gritted teeth. The part that has me questioning the very foundations of our domestic legal system.
He. Was. Right.
On his first read-through of this manuscript, he got to this exact point in the story and went into a full-blown funk because it didn't have a kiss. He was so cranky about it. Downright mean. His argument was, "This is the moment! It needs a kiss!"
My response, naturally, was to refuse to talk to him for two whole hours. When he tried to make peace, I just patted him condescendingly on the head and went right back to what I was doing. I mean, the nerve.
But... he was right. My author and I talked it over, we rewrote the scene, and we added the very kiss he was so moody about. And now it's the part he's cheering for.
I hate it. I hate that he was right. But my author and I are also doing a little happy dance over here. This ringing endorsement is a massive win.
You know what? This is a big deal. This might even be a cake-worthy offense. Maybe I will let him have some cake after all.
Maybe I'll even bake it for him. Don't tell him I said that. His ego is already at critical capacity.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #10: Grounds for Immediate Dismissal
I take it all back. Every last word. He is not the world's greatest proofer.
In fact, I might have to fire my one and only employee.
He misread. Did you hear me? He. MISREAD. As in, he read the words on the page, and his brain reported back with entirely incorrect information.
He wanders over to my desk, looking all serious and analytical, and says, "I might be the only person to notice this, but isn't that a very long PhD thesis on a sandal when you mention the footnote? The PhD is over 400 pages long?"
I just stared at him. "Uh, what sandal?"
He points to the screen, confident he's found a fatal flaw. "It says it right there. But why over 400 pages of a thesis on a sandal?"
Me, through gritted teeth: "What sandal? It's a SCANDAL. With a 'C'. Not a sandal that you wear on your feet."
Him, still not getting it: "But the point is such a small thing, it's only the footnote."
Me, losing the will to live: "Yes! Because lots of scandals are just footnotes in larger academic works! Do you really want to argue about this anymore? Do you need more explaining?"
And then, the lightbulb finally flickers on in that crime-thriller brain of his. "Oh, what? A scandal. I've been reading sandal." He then has the absolute audacity to just wave it away. "No, no. I'm moving on. I'm going back to proofing."
Right. He's just "going back to proofing." But seriously, I'm not sure I can trust him anymore. Who mixes up scandal with sandal?
...However. I'm going to let him continue. Not because I've forgiven this egregious error, but because he hasn't made another "snerk snerk" joke in at least an hour. The peace is worth it.
I'll even bring him a piece of his favorite dark chocolate as encouragement. He's going to need the brain food, apparently.
PS. I have not forgotten about The Thing. I am biding my time.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #11: An Attempt on My Life (and Sanity)
I'm pretty sure Hubby is trying to kill me. Not with a weapon, but with words.
It's a quiet, peaceful late Sunday afternoon. I'm working. He's "proofing." All is calm. Suddenly, I hear this declaration from the other room:
"I think this is click-bait. 'I lost both legs after inserting a tampon.'"
Uh... what?
My heart didn't just stop. It leaped out of my chest, did a frantic tap dance on the floor, and then hid under the sofa. My brain went into DEFCON 1. Did I leave something about tampons and losing legs in a sweet contemporary romance I just spent THIRTEEN HOURS editing yesterday? Was I so tired I hallucinated an entire subplot? WHAT. THE. HECK.
I storm in there, ready to demand answers, and what do I find? He's just casually scrolling Facebook on his phone.
"Oh no," he says, looking up at my wild-eyed expression. "That's not in the book. I'm scrolling Facebook." He then has the nerve to yawn and announce, "I'm at 40%, and I'm going to take a nap."
A nap. ANOTHER nap.
Yes. Yes, you go take another nap while I try to restart my own heart. You just go rest after you subjected me to a moment of mad, frantic panic that my professional career was about to go up in flames.
I have now officially upgraded my disciplinary toolkit. The teddy bear has been retired. Screw the soft and fluffy. He gets the memory foam pillow.
And yeah. He's already turned over and is snoring.
What am I going to do with this man? He's at 40%. I guess I have to give him another pass. But I think I'm being way too lenient with my staff. That cake is officially on probation. And of course, the chocolate I gave him is already gone. Of course it is.
It might be time for me to remind him of The Thing He Has Not Read to show him who’s boss.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #12: A Diabolical Tactic
He's napping. Of course, he's napping.
It's Sunday. A day of rest. For some, apparently. Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to be a Professional Editor, and I've discovered a horrifying fact: I'm only at 32% through the manuscript, and he's ahead of me. This is unacceptable.
I went in there to check his progress (and maybe smother him lightly with a pillow), but I got sidetracked by a cuddle. My own professionalism betrayed me.
But how can I stay mad? How can I maintain my competitive edge when he's employing such underhanded tactics?
You see, last night, while I was editing into the wee hours, he became this... this Tea-Fairy-slash-Snack-Butler. He stayed up until almost 2 am, silently appearing with fresh mugs of tea just as I was flagging. He reminded me to eat. And then, the final blow: when I was done, there was a glass of milk and a cookie on my bedside table. A COOKIE.
The man is playing a different game entirely. He's not competing on words-per-hour; he's competing on heart-melting gestures. It's diabolical. And it's working.
The Thing He Has Not Read will remain un-mentioned. The memory foam pillow will stay in its corner. He has bought himself a temporary ceasefire... with baked goods.
Well played, Hubby. Well played.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #13: A Leader Emerges
A brief update from the front lines of the Great Proofing War of 2025.
Current status:
- Me: 41%
- Hubby: Still napping.
The math is simple. The logic is undeniable.
Ergo, I am winning.
That is all.
Gloat gloat.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #14: The Soporific Strike
I see it all now. It was a setup.
The late-night tea. The cookie. The gentle reminders to rest. It wasn't kindness. It was a calculated plot, a soporific strike designed to neutralize his competition. And I, in my sleep-deprived state, fell for it completely.
I woke up from an unscheduled... tactical pause... to find the world turned upside down. He wasn't napping. He was proofing. Quietly. Smugly. Already at 49%. And there it was on the bedside table: a cold drink. The evidence of his continued campaign of relentless consideration. The monster.
What am I supposed to do with this man? I guess after 28 years together, he must be doing something right.
Let the record show, however, that this does not apply to me. I am, and remain, perfect and a delight. I can do no wrong. And if, hypothetically, I did do something wrong--like, say, get outmaneuvered in a proofing race by a nap-trap--do you honestly think I would admit it in a public forum where it could be used to incriminate me? Please. I was not born yesterday.
Tonight, I will make him his favorite chicken quesadillas. This is not an act of affection. It is a strategic deployment of poultry and cheese, designed to fuel the proofing process.
And don't you worry. The Thing™ is still being held in reserve, ready to be deployed as leverage at the most suitable time. The war is far from over.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #15: The Buttered Noodle Gambit
Okay, fine. FINE. Another update. I was trying to maintain a dignified silence, but I can't even process what is happening right now.
The man is at 67%.
I just checked. I had to squint to make sure I was reading it right. While I was performing the thankless, essential tasks that keep this house from descending into actual chaos--you know, chores, feeding living beings, etc.--he was just... sitting there. Winning.
And get this. He has the audacity to cancel the previously agreed-upon Chicken Quesadilla, a snack of substance and respect. His new request? His fuel for this final push to victory? Buttered spaghetti noodles. BUTTERED. NOODLES. Who asks for that? Is he a five-year-old celebrating a successful day at preschool? A Bond villain enjoying the simplest, most insulting meal imaginable after taking over the world? I have to make it. I can't say no. My hands are tied by the sheer velocity of his progress.
To make matters worse, he's deployed psychological warfare. He's LOBBING compliments at me from across the room. "Wow, this is really tight now." "The interconnectedness is brilliant." "Oh, these character cameos are such a great touch!"
And then, the final, devastating blow. A criticism. A single, infuriatingly insightful piece of constructive feedback about the detective's dialogue that was so good, so... correct, that I had to thank him through gritted teeth. He's not just beating me. He's making the manuscript better while he does it.
What is the protocol here? Is there a white flag emoji for this? Do I just throw my hands up and accept my new role as the official provider of beige-colored carbs to the victor?
Send noodles. And dignity. I appear to be fresh out of both.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #16: The Taskmaster's Turn
Let's be clear: the negotiations are ongoing, and technically, he's still in the lead. But something has shifted in the atmosphere. A glorious, beautiful thing has happened, and it has changed everything.
He's jealous.
You heard me. JEALOUS. He’s taking a "fuel break" (chocolate-covered ginger, the traitor) and muttering about how the book is now "masterful" and the pacing is "flawless." He is green with envy over how good this manuscript has become.
So, am I defeated? No. I am preening. I am basking. Color me happy.
This, of course, presented a strategic opening. While he was refueling, I negotiated a cup of tea for myself. He gets a bathroom break, during which I will continue proofing. The buttered noodles he so desperately desires will be delivered in exactly one hour.
"But I'm hungry now," was the petulant response.
Oh, really? "Suck it up, buttercup," I said, channeling a drill sergeant I didn't know I had in me. "You've got a job to do."
And then I played my trump card. "Besides, who's the one who took TWO naps today? TWO. Oh yes, the truth is out. My 'tactical pause' yesterday was a single, isolated incident. His was a pattern of blatant, strategic sloth."
The taskmaster is on the job now. The whip is cracking.
And then, in a moment of stunning, crystalline clarity, the entire cosmic game board revealed itself to me.
Let him have his little victory lap to the final page. Let him claim the 100% mark. It’s a consolation prize. Because when the dust settles and the last buttered noodle is consumed, the true victors have already been crowned: my author and I.
It's a win-win-win. A trifecta of pure, unadulterated triumph.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "But Deanna, don't you have a highly-trained, professional typo team for this?" Why yes, I do. A lovely team that operates on quaint concepts like "business hours" and "a reasonable fourteen-day turnaround."
I don't have time for that kind of nonsense. I have Hubby. Hubby is my 24/7, on-demand, high-performance proofing engine. An engine I can ride roughshod over, motivated by the memory of that stupid stick he once wielded so effectively against me.
Turnabout, as they say, is fair play.
Is the legendary carrot--The Thing™--still dangling tantalizingly out of reach? Yes. A small tragedy.
But for now, I will graciously settle for the spoils of this war: a manuscript polished to a blinding sheen...
...and a husband who understands, with every fiber of his being, that the buttered noodles arrive precisely when I say they do.
And not a moment sooner.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #17: The Audacity of the Man
I am actually speechless. I am sitting here, vibrating with a level of incandescent rage I didn't know I was capable of.
The gall of the man. THE GALL.
He just looked at me, with a straight face, and said, "I'm thinking about this as my book now."
His. Book.
He followed that little gem with this: "I think my name should be on the cover along with your author's name."
And then, the final shiv between the ribs. He referred to my thirteen hours of focused, painstaking work--not to mention all the other hours on every previous draft--as "a little assistance."
A. Little. Assistance.
Did I mention? The. Gall. Of. The. Man.
He's going to get chili in his buttered spaghetti noodles. A lot of chili. The spiciest chili I can find. And I hope his stomach explodes into a tiny, localized pit of fire.
I'm pretty sure my author, upon hearing of this treachery, will immediately withdraw the cake he was promised.
And that cake I was considering baking for him out of the goodness of my heart? Consider it un-considered. He can have thoughts and prayers.
The nerve.
The cheek.
The. Utter. Gall.
You know what? Never mind the memory foam pillow.
I will beat him with The Thing™.
I hope it hurts.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #18: No Gutters Allowed
We were at a pivotal moment. The sacred moment.
The hero, after chapters of tension, finally declares his feelings to the heroine. It was beautiful. It was tender. It was earned.
Hubby’s verdict? "Very good," he said, and I allowed myself to breathe. We were on the same page. We were partners in this literary dance.
And then I saw it happen. The shift.
First came the little snorting laugh, a sound that was half-chuckle, half-conspiracy. The snerk.
Then he leaned in, giving me a sharp nudge with his elbow.
The hero's raw, honest line is, paraphrased, "I just wanted to tell you where I am."
My husband dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll tell you where he can go next..."
And then he had the audacity to wink. A big, slow, theatrical wink.
My shock was a physical thing. My horror, a tangible force.
The teddy bear was deployed.
It was the only thing handy. It was also tragically, uselessly soft. I couldn't even find the memory foam pillow to administer proper justice.
I'm going to drink my tea in despair.
It was going so well. We were soaring. We were crafting art.
And then his dirty, naughty-boy brain came roaring back to life and we were right back in the gutter.
It's. A. Sweet. Contemporary. Romance. With a big does of mystery, but still…
No gutters allowed.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #19: The Hero Complex
I thought we had reached the summit of audacity. I was a fool. There are, apparently, entire new mountain ranges of ego to explore.
He's escalating.
He has now declared—with a straight face, a face that held the unwavering conviction of a prophet--that not only is he the co-author of the book I'm editing...
He is ALSO the inspiration for the author's hero.
Let me just let that sink in.
The hero. The author's hero. The fictional man of quiet strength, emotional vulnerability, and tender, soul-baring declarations whose journey I am meticulously helping to shape.
**He is claiming that he—the man whose most recent literary contribution was a wink and a nudge about where the hero "can go next"—is the blueprint for that character.
The man who requires chili in his buttered noodles.
The man who demanded cover credit for "a little assistance."
That man. Is the hero.
The delusion is so pure, so potent, it's almost majestic. It's a landmark. A monument to an ego so vast it has its own gravitational pull.
I can't even.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #20: Just Desserts
He's at 85%.
I am in the kitchen, dutifully making his buttered spaghetti noodles.
I am also, at this very moment, rummaging through the pantry for the spiciest chili peppers I own.
His audacity demanded a reckoning. The reckoning will be served warm, with a light coating of butter.
That is all.
Love, Honor, and a Red Pen #21: The Unimpeachable Victory
I am TRIUMPHANT.
Let's just sit with that for a moment.
I am VICTORIOUS. THE VICTOR.
Victory is mine, saith… oh wait! Wrong quote…
To understand the sheer, unadulterated scale of this victory, we must first rewind. We must go back to the scene of my utter defeat.
It’s the next morning. I finally collapsed into bed at 5 a.m. after a very important and Very Serious chat on Substack. Hubby, meanwhile, went to bed content, his stomach full of non-spicy buttered noodles, sitting smugly at 92% of the manuscript.
I am still languishing at a pathetic 47%.
He won the race. And to think, I didn't even have the satisfaction of putting the chili flakes in his noodles. More fool me.
So here I am, four hours of sleep later, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment. Hubby is already awake, promising coffee in bed if I can just muster the energy to face a day of errands. As I'm contemplating pulling the covers over my head forever, I hear it from his side of the bed.
A strange, choked sound. A sniffle.
Oh, what now? My mind instantly braces for impact. Has he found a fatal flaw on the final page? A plot hole so vast it unravels everything? Is he about to deliver his final, devastating critique?
I turn over, ready for battle, and see him looking at his phone, his face a mask of genuine shock.
"Oh my God," he says, his voice thick. "I'm crying."
…What?
My brain stalls. It tries to process the words. Crying? Hubby? My non-romance reading, crime-thriller, super-logical, computer-engineering, IT-systems Hubby?
Yes. The ending of the book made him cry.
He finished the manuscript without me. He won the proofing war. And it is the single greatest victory of my entire career.
He looked at me, his eyes still shining, and called it a "masterpiece in romance writing." He said it hit every single note a romance needs to hit. He said my author's craft was "outstanding."
And then, the word I have been waiting for this entire time.
He is JEALOUS.
JEALOUS. He CRIED. And he is JEALOUS. Of her writing.
And now you understand. Now you see why I am TRIUMPHANT.
My work here is done.
Bows with a great flourish.
P.S. In that moment of pure, unadulterated triumph, I decided, with all the grace of a conquering queen, that he never, ever has to read The Thing™. Some victories are so absolute, they render all previous debts null and void.
P.P.S. Right, about that. I take it all back.
That was a moment of weakness. A brief, emotional flight of fancy brought on by the sight of his tears. The moment has passed.
In the car, on our way to run errands, I clarified the new world order. His pardon has been officially and irrevocably revoked. He still has to read The Thing™.
You see, The Thing™ is a series of essays on the art of crafting a romance novel. A deep dive into tropes, emotional beats, and character arcs.
And this entire saga? Our bets, his ego, the noodles, the crying, the jealousy?
That’s my central case study.
"You," I told him, with all the love a triumphant wife can muster for her loving husband, "are fodder."
I then laid out the new terms of our union: Everything he says and does from this moment forward is fair game. He is not allowed to protest. He must simply sit there and take it.
Why?
Because I won. I am THE ONE who is TRIUMPHANT. And a girl is allowed to gloat. Forever.
And he just sat there, this masterpiece-loving, crime-thriller-reading, newly-emotional man of mine, and took it. Which, if you ask me, is the real happily ever after.
You see, at the end of the day, despite the battle, the crying, the triumph, and the gloating, Hubby is incredibly proud. Of me, and of my author. He’s proud of the work we’ve done and what we’ve achieved.
And that, right there, is the sweetest victory of all. For both of us.
In the end, this whole saga became the perfect case study for the game behind the game. The real victory wasn't just a perfectly polished manuscript; it was the partnership that got us there. It’s a reminder that the best work often comes from a place of chaotic collaboration, and the best partners are the ones who will drive you absolutely crazy on your way to a shared win.
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So, what about you? Does any of this sound familiar? I’d love to hear about the “real game” you play in your own work and life.
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