Hemingway had, after the noble nurse who forsook him,  four wives, one, it might be said, for each of his creative periods, all of which ended of course in his suicide at age 61.  Dostoevsky had two, the first one dying, the second a young typist he fell in love with, who helped him develop his long, patient, pained but beautiful vision all the way through on to his decline in health.  Tolstoy, after a life of colorful carousing, settled down and had one wife, and it seemed to go pretty well until toward the end, when they had a great disagreement about the company he kept.  She was immortalized in the story of the happy marriage in Anna Karenina, as Levin's Kitty.  The company, religious sycophants, he kept late in life ended up with the rights.  Chekhov, after a long life as a literary bachelor, traveling broadly and perhaps no stranger to a brothel, settled down at 40 and married actress Olga Knipper.  He was aware of his tuberculosis at the time, and it's uncertain whether they could sleep together.  She was with him when he died, not many years later.  Donne had one, an interesting story of marriage, which was controversial enough to land him in jail, who bore him twelve children, three of whom died before ten,  and died shortly after the last childbirth.  For all those years they had lived on the courtesy of patronage.  Lincoln, after the very sad death of the apple of his eye at a young age of 'milk sickness,' tried to do the right thing as far as courtship with a woman found to have gotten chubby but who then herself turned him down, before marrying Mary, after some tumult and standing her up once at the altar, who alone predicted that one day he, her husband, would be the President of the United States.  The love between them, despite all, is clear somehow.  Shakespeare married an older woman early on, had children with her, then moved on to London to escape legal problems, live his own life, lost a son, which devastated him, and ended up not wishing to be buried with her.  Carver tried, had an earlier life, two kids with a first wife he was abusive to in his drinking days, and when he reformed, leaving his old life, took writing classes and began, had lots of stories, had an editor who bullied him, and eventually found a lady poet, whom I believe he married before he died of a brain tumor, and who saved his last stories in the drawers where he left them.  Larkin seems to have been a bachelor for the most part.  And Yeats was far more screwed up over Maud Gonne, ending up trying to court her daughter, though by this point he was completely impotent.  Joyce perhaps had the best relationship of all with his wife, I'm led to think, but who knows.  Kerouac, I think, could have had fidelity, if his holding a job had not been so difficult, such an anathema to his mode of literary work.

And somewhere there is the writer who will write about, not for style nor profit, but just to better notice and record, meeting the woman to be his wife, and how he will, they will, make a bonding, draw together, and love properly for good ends, bringing health to themselves and the world.