Last summer I came face to face with a huge dilemma: My writing space had been invaded by an alien—the dreaded non-writer husband.

Writers need our own space. It’s a right of passage. A given. An essential part of this crazy puzzle we call writing. Whether it’s a corner in a bedroom, the office den, or a special seat at Starbucks, we need a space for our creativity to come alive. One writer I know uses a vacant closet. I can’t feature a closet with nothing in it, but whatever works, right?

My DH (darling husband) retired last May. I was worried about him going bonkers (he's used to thirty fifth-graders vying for his attention). I needn't have worried--he adjusted quite nicely. I didn't. This man doesn't know how