Never Date A Writer

They will build stories around your flaws and your dreams (and I don’t know which is worse). Their observations of your clothes, your character, and your actions will leave you exposed and filleted open . If you are lucky enough to read their work, you will see how they have viewed and written others, and you may wonder how they will write you. The title “muse” is a responsibility you are not ready for and their favor for you can change. What a double-edged sword of dangerous talent that can decorate or dispose of you.

Oh but to be loved by a writer. Your every move becomes art. They speak to parts of you that you didn’t realize were noticed, much less loved and treasured. Writers are students of human behavior, and you are their subject. Their art is not just written, it flows from their mouths when you’re laying together, gasping for breath in a pile of tangled limbs. They speak, and remember what they said, and how your body reacted, every intake of air, every pause for concern. They are piercing with their observations, tucking each insecurity of yours in a box labeled “for future use”.

They will write poems about how you reached for a cup in the cupboard, how your skin stretched in gleaming youth, the light sparkling off of your skin, the sweat they pulled from your body. You will remember the moments of silence when they watched you while you just existed. Writers capture moments of love, the same moments that will torture them later, moments they will kick themselves for not breathing in deeply enough. To be present or to observe? The existence of both simultaneously creates euphoria, searing an experience deep into their souls that they will later carve out in an offering of divine work for the world to judge.

Writers love deeply and easily, how else can someone see everything that resides in another and not run screaming in the opposite direction? They gather people like kindling for a fire, where the fire is their medium of choice: woven words of observation, wit, and coring truth. Your love is their life’s work, their love is your life. It is a trade in trust, and fickle is a scorned lover. Immortalized in ink, words carved into another’s soul.

Good luck.