First of all, my pillow is very special to me (obviously). Huggy Pillow, I call it. McIrish threw the original Huggy Pillow out about 15 years ago in a fit of rage and jealousy…well, okay, it wasn’t that. It was that all the feathers in Huggy Pillow had broken down, and it was this sad, limp thing and not very hygienic, either. He gave me a new Huggy Pillow, but it took about a year to get that thing into shape. But Huggy Pillow is named that for a reason; I’m always very cold at night, so I clutch the down pillow to my chest and have McIrish or the dog snuggle up to my back.
Anyway, Huggy Pillow also serves as my fake boyfriend when I’m writing a book. So the other day, I was flopped on the bed, where some of my best work is done, talking to Huggy Pillow (also known as Connor O’Rourke these days, as he is the hero of my current work-in-progress), and voila! A scene was born. A really great scene that involved a few difficult admissions, some tender words, and yes, kissing.
I talk to Huggy Pillow a lot when McIrish is at the firehouse every fourth night. Huggy is an excellent listener; sometimes better than McIrish himself, who has this tendency to fall into a deep coma the second he lies down. I’m usually the first one in bed at night, so even if McIrish is home, Huggy and I may have a nice long conversation. “What did you say?” my sainted husband might ask.
“I’m not talking to you,” I answer. “It’s none of your business.” I then continue with my deep, loving talk with the inanimate object.
A martyred I can’t believe I’m married to a writer sigh comes from my husband. Huggy and I ignore this rude intrusion and continue with our soul revelations.
Is it weird? Of course it is. But hey. You’re reading this blog. You must like my books. We’re in this together, gang.