If this is happiness
Diary of an Author: 26 May - 1 June 2025
26 May:
Yesterday was my wedding day. I am aware that I had not mentioned my impending nuptials in my diary. The reason for this is simple. As a Serious Literary Author, I do not believe in writing about a partner before marriage.
My first love will always be literature. Writing must come first. My wife understands this; I explained it to her on our first date when laying out the terms of conditions of entering into relations with an SLA. I also explained to her that if I ever seem emotionally withheld, this is because I must save my deepest feelings for my work. I never cry outside of my writing room. My tears are spilled exclusively onto the page.
Or so I thought. As soon as I saw my wife walking down the aisle I began to cry, and I was unable to stop for the rest of the day. I struggled to make it through my (brilliant) self-penned vows, then took four whole minutes to successfully say, “I do.” The tears also impaired my vision, causing me to place my wife’s ring on her thumb, then kiss the registrar.
I continued to cry throughout the afternoon and into the evening. At lunch I was unable to hold a conversation, responding to all questions with a sobbing moan. My speech, which I had spent months writing, was reduced to just vowels. And then came the part of the day I had been dreading: the first dance. As an SLA, I am blessed with two right hands, but cursed with two left feet. Dancing is not my forte. Thankfully, seconds into the dance I slipped in a puddle of my own tears and crashed into the electrical supply, plunging the marquee into darkness.
All told, it was an eventful day. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about it is that whilst I was crying, I was happy. This is a new and confusing feeling for a Serious Literary Author.
27 May:
We are droiving to our honeymooon. Ass is probably apparent from my typing, my wiffe is driving. One should always endeavour to drive slowlly and smoothly with a Serious Literary Author in the passenger seat, as bumpy conditions can make writing difficunt. But ass usual, my wife is ignoring my repeated requests that we maintain a speed of under fifteeeen miles per hour. A few minutes ago she suggested that iff I am so concerneds by her driving, perhaps I should drive instead. This would be impissible. Whenever I am in a seated position, I automatically begin composing poems and stories in my head – and everybody knows it is illegal to write and drive.
We are honeymooning in a secluded rural cottage in deepest darkest Cornwallll. My wife had suggested a spaa hotel, but I immediately vetoed this idea. The spa is a terrible envoirenment for a writer. It is simply to00 stimulating. There is nothing w0rse thann thinking of the perfect half-rhyme, only to have it pushed from the mind by a suddden rush of bubbbles to the groin in a hot tub. And as for masssages, all I’ll say is that any aauthor who can concentrate on composing a sonnet whilst being prodded and poked in such a way is even more Serious and Literary than i am.
No, the rural cottage will be perfect. No noise. No phone signal. Back to the basics of living. Just me, my wife, and nature. And writing. What could be bettrer?
28 May:
We arrived at the cottage yesterday evening to find that that there is not only no phone signal, but also no WiFi. I was shocked and appalled. Not only am I unable to play Wordle, which is an essential part of my morning writing routine (wroutine), but there is also no way for us to order food on Uber Eats. The latter was a particular problem last night, as we turned up tired and hungry after the long drive. With the nearest village over twenty miles away and all shops closed, the situation was desperate. My wife smiled and reminded me that this was the whole point – to go back to basics. She told me to go and pick some mushrooms from the field while she foraged for wild garlic and nuts in the garden. I was suddenly grateful for my wife’s farming background. If I am honest, she is probably even more comfortable with nature than I am.
Whilst searching for mushrooms in the field, I encountered a cow. I wasn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, my wife hadn’t mentioned anything about killing a cow. But on the other hand, she would surely be impressed if I returned with an animal for us to eat. On the third hand, the cow was very large and angry looking, and I had no weapons. As I was deciding what to do, several more cows appeared, and I suddenly felt quite threatened. I attempted to intimidate them by adopting a boxer pose, but this prompted them to start walking towards me and mooing aggressively. I turned to run away, but realised there were now cows behind me as well. Newspaper headlines about my death began to flash before my eyes, all featuring humiliating cow-based puns (‘Writer Meets Udderly Tragic End’, ‘Author Dies in Bovine Intervention’, etc), and I began to cry. Thankfully, my wife then appeared and made some sort of casual wrist-flicking motion that caused the cows to disperse. We then went back to the cottage and ate wild garlic and nuts (sans mushrooms).
29 May:
Whenever I do something generous for my wife, such as bring her a cup of tea or top up her wine glass, I now refer to it as ‘advanced husbandry’. I think she finds it very amusing!
***
I have been asked to stop using the word ‘husbandry’, as apparently it has something to do with raising pigs.
30 May:
Today my wife suggested we go ‘cold water swimming’ in the river. I have never understood the modern obsession with this activity. I would rather go warm water swimming, preferably without the swimming (I would rather have a bath). But she insisted I would enjoy it and it would make me feel good. I knew there was absolutely no chance of this. Why would I possibly enjoy submerging myself in freezing cold and potentially unclean water in an unmanned and potentially dangerous environment? As I stripped to my underwear on the riverbank, newspaper headlines about my death flashed before my eyes (‘Tragic Writer Goes With the Flow’, ‘Author Drowns in River’), and I vowed never to let myself be led outside of my comfort zone again. But in the end I enjoyed it and it made me feel good.
31 May:
We are coming to the end of what has been one of best weeks of my life. While I have enjoyed all of the activities my wife and I have got up to (some of which have been included in my diary, some of which have not), perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of it all has been the quiet, understated moments; simply sitting with my wife, sipping a coffee or a glass of wine, talking about this, that or the other. If this is happiness, I am excited about the future.
1 June:
We have returned home. I have just opened my writing notebook to review the poems and stories I wrote on my honeymoon. I was shocked and appalled by what I found. The pages are blank. I wrote nothing. If this is happiness, I am concerned about the future.
This is my new favorite of your diaries.
I am concerned by any serious artist finding conjugal bliss. Look what it did to David Bowie. Please do not allow serenity to tarnish the purity of your art.