I'm so incredibly proud of my husband -- he had a dream of becoming a writer, he worked hard at it, and he now has a literary agent ready to shop his finished novel around to major publishing houses. It's a fabulous book, of course, and I'm saying that only because I'm a little biased. But in all honesty, it's really good, and I'm more than a little impressed. It's weird being married to someone who impresses you.

He's full of great ideas, my hubby. I love the characters he comes up with and the conflicts they have to go through. I've read three of his books (two are still works-in-progress), as well as step sheets and initial chapters for others. I've read his blog entries, and the long emails he used to write me when we were first dating. I could read his shit all day.

There's only one thing that bugs me: I like writing too, but I haven't done anything with it since college. My husband is a veritable font of creativity, while my pool has evaporated to dust. I am inspired by nothing, and I find I rarely have anything to say, even on this blog. I never really had a dream of becoming a writer like Peat. I just wrote because it felt good, like playing the guitar or doing yoga.

I'd like to start writing again, but I can't think of anything to write about. People tell me to write about my own life, but I can't really see how anyone would be interested in reading about stuff like that. There are already a ton of books out there that discuss problems growing up and troubled relationships. Who gives a crap? And my memory sucks, so I'd probably screw something up and then get crucified for it on Oprah or something.

(Plus, in all honesty, I'm a lazy sack. If I weren't, I'd be playing the guitar and doing yoga, besides writing.)

Peat is living his dream and reaching his goals. I'm happy for him, and extremely proud. My problem is that I never really had a dream to begin with. And sometimes, that really depresses me.