Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer.  She’ll tell you tales of intrigue and heartache, filled with clever parallels and euphemisms, but somehow by the end of it, she will feel further away.  She’ll creep into your soul and tell you she loves you, a love will last “‘til Kingdom come,” she’ll whisper.  She might even compare the two of you to one of the greats, like Catherine and Heathcliff, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,”  but somehow she’ll say all of this in monotone and without ever meeting your eyes.  Don’t worry though my friend, you won’t notice it at the time.

Never date a writer because she’ll always say what she knows you want to hear.  She may even say it in iambic pentameter, or throw in a subtle rhyme.  Then when your head is easy with her words of serenity, she’ll be saying the same thing to the boy down the street with the scar over his eye.  Or the boy with the Vonnegut quote tattooed on his arm.  Or maybe even that mysterious boy from Liechtenstein.

Never date a writer because she will always know more than you.  During your intimate moments of idea exchanges and song meaning theories, if you look closely, she’ll be biting her tongue while you’re declaring your impressive theories.  Don’t you know?  She has already thought of that one, you fool.  But do not worry, she’ll disguise her patronizing with a warm smile and a sweet sigh.

Never date a writer because she will write about you.  She’ll write about the time you built her the canopy for her bed that she never got to have as a kid, and the time you wrote her a song.  She’ll even write about the time you had a fight out on the balcony when her make-up was only half done and one of the Christmas lights was burnt out.  She’ll call that irony of course.  Somehow your broken heart will lead to another’s favorite lyrical.  And she’ll definitely write about the time you forgot to pick her up from the airport.

What she won’t write about is how you didn’t forget.  How everyday you couldn’t wait for her to get home.  How you left the porch light on each night in case she decided to surprise you and come back early.  She won’t write about how that day your car broke down on the way to pick her up, but you had no money for a cab because you spent your last dime on an engagement ring for her.  Of course you didn’t tell her any of this once she started speaking to you again, because you were embarrassed.  She won’t write about how in a hurry to scramble together enough money for a taxi, you pawned that watch your Dad gave you when he finally declared you “a man.”  And she definitely won’t write about how when you finally got to the airport and found her not there, you cried, as a man, for the first time.

She won’t write about how she was the only person you couldn’t wait to talk to everyday.  Not even the times you kissed her forehead while she was sleeping or kept smiling after she turned away.  She won’t write about how you planned to propose to her one night under that canopy you made for her.  Five times you hid the ring under the pillow and opened the windows in that bedroom because you knew she’d appreciate the gentle whispering of the wind, maybe she’d even write about it, you thought.  But she won’t.  She won’t because all five times she felt far away.  Her voice was monotone and her eyes never met yours.  She kept biting her tongue and breathing a sweet sigh, so you never proposed to her any of those long nights.

Never date a writer because you’ll never be Heathcliff.  You’ll never be Rochester or Romeo or Mr. Darcy or even the man from that story by O. Henry, who sells his watch to buy his wife those combs.  Maybe, if you could remember his name, she’d love you all the way.  So never fall in love with a writer, because she’ll never fall in love with you the same way.

Also see, Never Date a Musician.

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One thought on “Never Date a Writer

  1. […] Also see, Never Date a Writer. […]

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