Dearest,

Did you know what you were getting into, my love, when you married a writer?

Did you know it would mean oft coming home to dishes only half finished because inspiration struck in the midst of the soap suds?

Did you know how often I’d nearly burn your dinner—or forget to get it started altogether—because I’d be deep in the midst of a project that involved words and websites?

Did you know that you were marrying a girl whose ideas of a fun evening are reading a book, listening to a book, or writing something (presumably) shorter than a book?

Did you know you were signing up to have your love story published far and wide and your love letters be the background for a blog?

Was all this covered in that chat you had with my daddy?  Or was it something you guessed, since you’ve always known me better than I know myself?

And here we are, six years and three children later.

You still vacuum the floor that – in the midst of brainstorming for a post – I hardly even notice is covered in crumbs.

You still eat my cooking even when it lacks the creativity of my writing.

You still write me mushy Hallmark cards because you know how much love put to paper means to me.

And you still read the words I string together, even when they aren’t written on heart-shaped stationery and mailed just to you.

Thank you for loving me in spite of my writing habits.

Thank you for your sacrificial love as you pick up the slack in the housekeeping.

Thank you for showing your interest by taking the time to give helpful critiques.

Thank you for showing you believe in me by finding me new work projects.

Thank you for being the inspiration behind my words.

Thank you for caring enough about me to read my heart put to paper.

I love you, Merritt.  So much more than words could ever express.

Happiest of wedding anniversaries, my love.

Yours,
Gret