Don't fall in love with a writer.

Don’t fall in love with a writer because when we love, we love hard. Anything less than a love Jane Austen would write about is not the love for us. The love we give will be robust, all consuming, rich. It will touch all facets of your senses and vocabulary you never dreamed of. Aged, for we have lived many years and many lives through the text of others.  We will weave our affections around you like we do the words of a good story. We will love with every fiber in our milky white bones. We will study you and read you and learn more about you from observing than you intended. The way you tap your pencil when you are in deep thought or the way you linger over your coffee in the morning, the way you run your right hand through your hair when you are overcome with stress and let it linger there as if waiting for a solution, no trait goes unnoticed. And when we let you in, it isn’t merely that you make our hearts skip a beat but it dances and there is a pitter-patter in the pirouette like motions of a tiny ballerina just prancing around at the thought of you.

You aren’t simply the first thing we think of in the morning, you are the thought that consumes us, taking all of our good senses hostage and refusing to loosen its grasp. The protagonists in all of our fictions will carry parts of you. These bastard children made between your actions and our words that you know nothing about will roam about on reams of printed pages coming into the lives of strangers everywhere.

 

 






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