We filed the extension this year. That’s what happens when two married people don’t live together for a year. You file an extension. Because the truth, if we’re being honest here, is that neither one of us is organized.
He can’t find his stuff.
I can’t find mine.
And nobody wants to the task of compling the indvidual stuff into a joint project.
For thirty years we had a system that worked. He took care of his stuff. I took care of mine and once a year we mailed it off to Chuck, our accountant, who figured out the piles.
But Chuck died last year.
Got lung cancer, even though he didn’t smoke, and up and died. Quickly.
It stunned us all. Left us grieving and distraught.
Chuck was more than our accountant. He was our friend.
When I went in the hospital to give birth to Konnie, Chuck and Sheryle took care of the older kids. Chuck was terrific with kids. Loved them to pieces. He was especially fascinated with twins. Our twins. He wouldn’t shy away from a dirty diaper or runny nose. He was a nurturer from the get-go.
We went on yearly camping trips together. The Roberts and us. Told stories and laughed. We were always laughing. We played bunko and watched more movies than I can recall. Ferris Bueller. Chuck loved Ferris.
We have a new accountant this year. A fine fellow named Doug. Came recommended to me by another friend, John. Doug doesn’t know me well yet. He doesn’t know how crazy life with a writer can be.
But as I told him in an email today — I hope to make your life a lot more complicated soon.
That’s what a good writer should do.
Challenge the tax guy.
It’s part of the fun of being a writer.