“I’m a writer. I don’t cook and I don’t clean.” Dorothy West.

When I was a kid, my grandmother had a hysterectomy. I don’t mean when I was a teenager. I mean when I was a kid, like ten. And my mother sent me to stay with her for a week during my Summer vacation to take care of her. When my mother had a hysterectomy a few years later, I took care of her, too.

My writing has always come after caring for someone or something. I’ve written while potatoes boiled, at laundromats, while in doctors’ waiting rooms and on the public bus. I’ve gotten up early to sneak in writing before anyone would need me.

I have always had weight on my pen. Weight that many women probably find quite familiar.

This won’t be news to most of you, but women’s aspirations are often put on the back burner. We work our passions while babies nap, while water boils and meatloaves bake. We are often the default caregivers of children, parents, and in-laws. So if we are to write, we’ll do so once everything else is done.

This happens to me all the time. As you might know, my Darling Husband had a stroke about a year and a half ago. He is physically and mentally disabled. He needs care, some days more than others. So writing often comes in stolen moments. I barely wrote the first year after his stroke; I just didn’t have the time or energy.

Men don’t seem to have this problem. Or, I should say, men are less likely to have this problem. Lots of modern men are good at this. If you’re a man and you do an equal share of the housework, make your own doctor’s appointments, take equal care of your kids and elderly relatives, and pick up after your damned self without needing a list, that’s awesome. You’re a competent adult, and we love to see it. I’m kind of assuming that if you’re a man and you’re reading this, you are in fact one of these competent adults because I generally assume my readers are wonderful people and I love you all.

Let me tell you, though, that is not always the case.

One of the most galling things about the division of homecare is hearing some (not all) creative men talk about their partners. And, I hate to say it, but the first one that comes to mind is my man, my hero, Stephen King.

In his book, On Writing, he talks about his wife, Tabitha. And he obviously adores her. He makes it clear that he was only able to write while they had three little kids and they were both working because she was picking up the slack around the house. However, he points out that she had writing aspirations as well.

Well, fuck that! Tabitha King is an author. She’s been a published author since goddamned 1981 when her novel Small World came out. And I only found that out literally five minutes before writing this sentence because I looked it up! She’s published eight novels! On Writing came out in 2000, at which point Tabitha had already published seven of her books. And he sure didn’t mention that!

Stephen wrote novel after novel while working full time and doing a shit ton of coke. She wrote novel after novel while working, raising children, caring for a house, and dealing with her coke-addicted husband. Not to mention being incredibly supportive of his career. Put some respect on her damned name!

Over and over I hear men in the writing field talk about how much they depend on their spouses so they can write. I don’t often hear women say the same thing. Yes, some husbands fit that supporting role. But more often you hear men talk affectionately about how much their wives support them, without sparing a thought for how they can support their wives back.

Even so, the weight on the modern woman’s pen isn’t as heavy as it used to be. Consider Shirley Jackson, one of the greatest horror writers of all time. We all know the sort of marriage she had. Imagine what she might have done if her pen were a little lighter. If she’d had someone to cook dinner and look after the children. What might we have seen from other famous women writers? How many more amazing works would we have if women didn’t have this extra pressure on their time?

This needs to stop. This pressure needs to be removed. We need our pens to be lighter. But if that’s to happen, we women need to start having some real conversations with our partners, and with each other. In that spirit, I want to speak directly to my fellow women right now.

If your partner isn’t sharing in domestic labor, it might be time to have a real conversation with them. That’s going to look different for every couple. But it’s better than doing all the work and growing resentful that your own dreams are being buried under laundry and vacuuming.

We also need to stop posting these dumb, weaponized incompetent videos of men. It just encourages other women to put up with bad behavior because ‘all men are like that’. The fuck they are. My husband is half paralyzed, and he still helps out around the house to the best of his ability. My roommate is twenty-four, and he does equal parts of the housework.

Now, let’s also talk about how we talk to and about ourselves and each other. We do not have to have perfectly clean houses. We don’t have to make meals from scratch every night. We don’t have to have everyone over for holidays, cook, clean, and be perfect hostesses. We can ask for help from our families. We don’t have to take care of everyone. We shouldn’t expect perfection from ourselves. And if you have friends or family members who expect that perfection from you, maybe that’s not your problem. Maybe it’s time to respectfully tell your mom, sister-in-law, or judgy friend to go to hell.

This is something I’ve really struggled with. Especially since my husband’s stroke.

This is about to get real real here, so please be kind.

For the first few months after my husband’s stroke, I barely slept, let alone wrote. He needed almost constant care. He couldn’t sit up, couldn’t feed or clean himself. I didn’t leave the house for more than fifteen minutes for months. I was scared to take a shower with the door closed. I was terrified to leave him alone.

People offered to help. To sit with him. To run errands for me. And I would just say that I was fine. I had it covered. Because I did have the necessary things covered. He was clean, fed, and cared for. The house was put together.

But I wasn’t writing. Hell, I wasn’t reading. I could barely let him out of my sight.

Then, I did something drastic. A friend needed a roommate. I needed help. So we moved in together. I let other people stay with my husband. I let other people cook and clean. We’re talking about hiring a housekeeper. I stopped doing every single thing for my husband, and only stepped in when he actually needed help.

More than all of that, I’ve come to accept that the house might just be a mess. And that’s okay. It’s not a moral failing. Right now as I write this, there’s a massive pile of clothes that need to be folded and put away. There are dishes in my sink. The lawn needs mowed. I’ll get to it, or someone will. My writing comes first.

It’s time to take some weight off our pens and see what we can really do.

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