There are snickers coming from the bedroom. My husband is reading my NaNo novel.

“I finished The Philosopher’s Stone,” he said, walking into the living room just past twelve o’clock. “Can I… would you mind if I read your novel?”

“Ah…” I said. “No?”

He looked at me anxiously.

“If you want to edit it or rewrite it first -”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “I meant, no, I don’t mind. I think.”

He’s been reading it all afternoon. Every once in a while I hear a chuckle.

Me. The author of choice in my household right after J.K. Rowling. Before, possibly, since he had the choice between picking up the next book in her series, or my book.

It bodes well.