We did other things too — we ran Reiki, Tarot and Qabalah classes; we gave psychic readings, Reiki treatments, Indian Head Massage and aura drawings in the Sunday markets; we had writers' groups meeting in our homes (we had various homes over time, because we rented) and sometimes I ran writing classes for the local Community College. We lived in places of great natural beauty and we enjoyed them to the full. We went out and about to movies, to theatre, to art galleries, to dine with friends. We shopped and cooked, talked on the phone, read many books (neither of us ever without one), watched TV and listened to music.
But alongside all that, underpinning it, we spent our lives writing. We spent them at our desks, at our computers. We did use notebooks too. When I think of the boxes of notebooks there are, I have to say we used them a lot — but most of our writing has been onscreen.
We spent great slabs of each day, and often night, at this occupation.
So in many ways my life is not much changed. Writing is what I do. Oh, I tend the house and look after the cats; I cook and shop; I meet my friends for coffee; I run a weekly writers' group; I learn Tai Chi; I read and watch TV; I go to movies ... but writing is THE thing I do, just as I always did. Just as he and I always did, not only in our twenty years together but separately long before that too, before we ever knew or dreamed of each other.
I still spend my life at my desk, at my computer. It is very easy, then, to get absorbed and forget he isn't here in his own office, doing it too.
We sometimes shared an office, but mostly he liked to have his own space, when our accommodation would run to that. That didn't mean we were isolated; there was a lot of communication back and forth. But it means that now I can have the illusion that everything is just as it was before, because my part of it hasn't changed. I am a writer before I am anything else; it's the one lifelong constant.
It's kinda weird, and kinda reassuring, to be continuing on as I did when we were together, as if he was not gone. Because if he were present it would be just the same ... almost.