This match was not a writer. He was one of those people who would tell anyone who listens long enough that he would make a great writer because he has so many great ideas. Our date eventually brought us there, to that moment of sharing, but first…
Notes on The Writer:
- His dating profile was made up entirely of bathroom selfies, meaning all the pictures were taken in a bathroom — his own bathroom, a hotel bathroom, a work bathroom.
- He lived in a large home with neat, mostly-empty rooms, with nearly every electrical outlet connected to and controlled by an app on his phone. In what would have been the dining room (had he owned a table), there was a hoverboard. I’d always wanted to try one, and The Writer was impressed when I hopped up and rolled unsteadily around the cavernous rooms of his main floor.
- He confessed to me that he had never read a book in its entirety, unless the Bible counted.
- Despite his self-proclaimed flair for storytelling, he seemed a bit slow to pick up on predictable narrative patterns. While watching a movie together, The Writer was nearly bowled over by my observational skills and ability to correctly guess the basic plot trajectory.
- He owned satin sheets. I’m not sure why I feel the need to point this out, except that it was odd. Where does one even buy satin sheets?
When I undressed and sat on those awful sheets, he looked at me and told me sincerely that I looked like art, like a fine painting. And I couldn’t help but adore him for that. In his darkened bedroom, he shared with me a storyline he’d been nursing for a few years, a Tyler Perry-esque drama that I struggled to remain completely awake for. He went so far as to offer it to me, to say that he’d never do anything with it, and that I should write and publish it. I played along, discussing the financials and the dedication page, but I knew that I’d never give weight to his vision. I wondered how many people he’d offered this gift to. Was I the only one? What does it mean to discard the gift of an idea? Is it like never wearing a handmade scarf? Or is it worse, like burning it and stomping on the ashes?