Electric Literature had this Valentine’s Day hashtag (#Writing Valentines) where writers tweet what their writing would speak to them on Valentine’s Day. Some were hilarious, some naughty, and some sweet. I wonder if it gives insight to the poster’s perspective or experience with love, sex, relationships, and life in general.
I’m now inspired to write the expanded version. I’m imagining that Writing is personified as Chris Evans serenading me in his boxers like in the movie What’s Your Number? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a hot, nearly naked neighbor playing the guitar and singing a love song to you? That movie was terrible. At least, having some eye candy made up for it.
Hey, my soon-to-be husband is just as hot or even hotter. I have a Colombian-Portuguese/Italian hottie who has his own talents. Truthfully, I’m not really into “blond blue eyes” look unless of course he’s Chris Evans. Maybe I’m impartial but I prefer brunettes or guys with at least Italian skin or some amount of brownness. I’m not into pale skin. Regardless, I won’t say no to a muscular guy with a guitar. It’s a rarity because most musicians I encounter are scrawny hipsters.
Here’s an exchange of letters between Writer Indu and Writing:
Dearest Writer Indu,
Remember how we first encountered and you gaze at me with fascination. Your passion, vivid imagination, observant nature, and intelligence made you desirable to me. There’s nothing more attractive than a writer who is excited to see me and work on me. How precious is it when your eyes light up with excitement when you have a story that you are dying to tell the world. It’s an honor to be the medium that tells your lovely thoughts to the world. I reminisce those days when you were a teenager and stayed up late night writing a story after your homework or coming home after hanging out with friends. And during your college years, you stuck with me even though you worked full-time and took full-time college courses. You hosted writers groups and constantly helped others discover the wonderful relationship between the writer and writing.
It hurt me when you closed your journals. Then, you were gone. When you left me, I was worried. Did you find another love? And forgot everything we did for years? But, now that you finally opened up, I understand. Illness took it’s toll on you and you were just too exhausted, drained, and discouraged to type away across the blank screen. Don’t deny what’s happened—the joys and pleasures, pain and misery, and adventures. I can help. We can work together and make even the darkest hours of your life into art that speaks to others out there in the world.
I’m happy that you are back in my life. I forgive you. I’m not demanding and I don’t want to be. Take it one step at a time. All I want is your acknowledgement and at least some time. I’d be pleased even if you spend 15 minutes a day with me.
Let’s reconcile like the good old days. Let’s spend more afternoons and evenings together. Last week, when you wrote the first several pages of your short story, I knew it’s a brand new beginning to our relationship. You see, stories can be made from the most random life events. Till next time.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Enjoy, my fellow writer friends who are my sisters and brothers since only we understand each others’ eccentricity and daily life.