(A phone call from my home office to Barry in his office at his "day" job in Queens where he is president and CEO of a large organization. I interrupt a staff meeting.)

"Barry, got a minute?"

"Well, no, but what do you want, anyway?" (asked in low muttered tones, and that's how I now know he's not only in a meeting, but his office contains people who wouldn't understand why his wife would interrupt his work about anything less than a dire emergency. Oops.)

I forge ahead. After all, this is an emergency to me. Barry's and my reputations are on the line!

"I need to call 'X' (magazine editor) about where they put the break to continue our article on a back page. It hits right in the middle of that chart of book value variations and it's confusing enough as it is. After the next paragraph, though, a break would work fine. If his space is too tight to move the break, I could rearrange the paragraphs. Thing is, I'd call but I'm feeling bummed and insecure today, and you know how my voice shows everything I feel...he'd say no, whatever I ask. I wouldn't bug you, but..."

"Let me call him. After five," Barry mutters into the phone.

"Um, he's leaving for the Hamptons in twenty minutes."

In hushed tones, "You know you can change the paragraphs around if he needs it?"

"Slick and easy."

"Okay. I'll take a fast break from my meeting and call now. Bye."

"Wait! He also cut out the paragraph where you list which books you believe are undervalued and why you think so. Wouldn't hurt to ask him what his problem is with it. I loved that part! It's sort of a lesson on collecting the right books!"

"Good idea. Is that it?" he asks in a whisper.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Later, at home, we discuss another project:

"Barry, you can't make one sentence fill an entire page. If you break down what you've written, you'll find you wrote a list, but each item of the list is a long, complex phrase."

"But I want all those details in there. They need to be there."

"I'm not arguing that. Just read it out loud. When you have to take a breath, mark it. When you're done, see if a new way to put this stuff into a group of shorter sentences occurs to you. If you still bog down, I'll fix it."

"But I like the way it is!"

"Nobody can read that, Barry."

"I can."

"Nobody can read that, Barry!"

"Hmph."

"And how's the word count on what you've written so far?"

"How would I know, it's in longhand!"

"Mmm. You could type it, you know. You have a computer."

"I'm slow."

"Practice makes you faster."

Grunt (meaning, No way, José).

"Gotcha. Well, when your secretary types it, ask for a word count." (I quit typing for him years ago. His secretary is a far better decoder of his hieroglyphics than I am.)

Barry, in desperation: "Listen, the editor will love this. He'll change his mind about the word count once he sees all this information. It's fascinating!"

"That means you know it's too long. Count the words. It's a magazine article, not a novel."

"You'll see."

"Count the words."

"Oh, all right, I'll have a copy for you to go over tomorrow morning."

"I'll be here."

That's the key. We're here for each other, always. Even for things that could look silly or unimportant to non-writers. That's the best part. Because we sometimes write together; work our articles out together; hack out writing problems (sometimes with a bit of yelling) into mutually agreed solutions; even tackle PR snarls or my occasional stage fright together--that understanding of the writing life carries over to when we write separately. And into our living together. Works for us.

So she says. True, but not always easy. Angela's more stubborn about not changing her stuff when I edit her. When she decides I need to change something, notwithstanding the fact that she is most often correct about my scribblings, my changes become suggestions while hers are orders. I admit I'm a better manager than writer. I have a "nonfiction" bent of mind and that's what we do well together. Very different from fiction. Style and personal vision are so important in creative writing, I don't know how other "partners" write fiction jointly. I can only imagine that they must be infinitely patient, accommodating, and tolerant people.

Angela and I do write separately most of the time, but when we write nonfiction together--well, let's just say we consider it a privilege to collaborate in any endeavor.