It was okay when we lived in the other house. It was okay then. It was less noticeable. I think the sheer size of the house diluted the problem. There was simply just so much space that we were like two tiny squash balls bouncing around in an infinite squash court, unlikely to(more) cross paths very often.
He got up and went to work early, had managers meetings, went on golfing junkets. I wrote, drank coffee, wrote, walked the dog. It was the perfect set up for two people who had little if anything in common. That was before the crash. Before we couldn't meet the payments anymore. I had a beautiful office on the first floor with double doors that opened out onto a balcony. In the Summer and sometimes even in the Winter I would throw open the doors, leaving the air to circulate and to stir up my creativity. We had a lady who came one day a week to do the cleaning, washing, ironing. I was getting work done, good work. Publishers were sniffing around.
It was okay then. Now I have no office and confined to a corner of the living room. A desk facing a blank wall. He just works part time now and likes to watch television. There is the constant battle of wills about the volume. There is no door to open to stir up my creativity. It is a galley kitchen and the bedroom is too small to house a desk as well. There is no more golf. The golf was a blessing, taking him out for hours on end. Now, even when he is out the words don't come. The publishers have shuffled off. It was okay when we didn't have to interact, when we could just pretend.(less)