I love the man, I do. He used to be my writing partner, before his job got to be too much work.
He’s still my number resource when it comes to writing though, and my harshest critic.
If I have a plot snarl, I yak at him until it goes away. Sometimes, he can help through the issue. Sometimes, he just sits there while I talk it out.
And critic… my goddess, he and I get into it.
The most repeated argument we have:
Him: You can’t take criticism!
Me: You mean I don’t blindly make the changes you tell me to!
I kid you not when I say we can and have argued for hours about the first sentence of a story.
But at the end of the day, he still knows my universe better than anybody but myself. And he does sit and listen to my ramblings (until it interferes with killing aliens)
So why am I talking about this today?
Because last night, I sat at his feet and hashed out 8 or 9 chapters of my novel as he nodded and grunted. And I love that five years into this crazy journey of mine, I can still do that.