It’s hard to casually listen to music when you’re married to a musician.  The radio is on in the car. I’m humming along.
My husband turns it up, who is this?
I don’t know, I say.
Then why do you know the words?  Long pause.  His brow is furrowed as he listens hard.
This is junk, he states.  This song is awful.
I sigh.  How do I affirm him?
Here’s right though, and when he sings his songs, I hear how hard he works at them, and how unfair it is that so much trashy music gets all that radio play.  He stays up late on weekends to write and play guitar.  Beer cans and empty potato chip bags I clean up the next morning while my coffee brews.  Did he finish writing a song last night?  I bring him a mug of coffee while the kids eat their 3rd bowl of cereal.
Hey, wow, thanks, he yawns and takes the coffee. Sets it on his night stand, then reaches for my waist.
He smiles big, hopeful and messy up at me.
Yes, I grin back. He finished writing that song.