You Should (Not) Date A Writer

Action verbs. He employs the use of action verbs when practicing his craft. Action verbs invoke the feeling of movement and importance. He was so used to passive verbs before. Outside the page, the world was passing him by. But now, on the page at least, he commands these words and creates a clear picture of exactly what he wants. When you walk to the table, he stands and smiles. He steps forward to pull the chair out as you sit down. He carefully places his fingers around the rim of his glass and meets your eyes before he drinks.

Writers use action words because they make it easier for you to picture yourself doing them.

Introspection. He writes, but he does not write for a living. People are rarely afforded the great luxury of relying on their truest talent for income, but he tells you that he writes. He calls himself a schoolteacher, but he tells you that he writes. Then he asks you, while he takes a coaster and places it under his cocktail, what a person truly is. He asks you if a person is who they say they are or what it isthey do.

Writers make you think because they want to stay with you long after they’ve left.

Metamorphosis. He shares titles but not details. He coolly laughs and tells you that his pieces are personal and that you will have to read them yourself. When you ask why strangers can read them but you cannot, he takes another sip from his cocktail and moves the coaster a bit closer to himself so he can lean back as he informs you that you are no longer a stranger.

Writers invoke change in their characters because they want you to believe that you — or they — can.

Skilled. His vocabulary is extremely eloquent and he boasts a better barroom disposition than you have experienced in the last — I don’t know how many years. The feeling that begins to flutter, flurry, and fly through your chest is unequivocal. He orders something unusual, like a Black Russian or a Tom Collins, and when you request a beer he says that surely a complex woman deserves a complex drink. You let the Cosmopolitan burn your throat.

Writers equip themselves with words for the same reason a knight fortifies his armor.

Characterization. When he offers his place to stay for the night he already knows how far you have to go to make it home, he already expects the excuse fumbled over your lips and when you think your feet fail you he puts his hand out and your fingers grip his palm. He smiles and in this smile you can see the weaknesses he spent the whole night hiding. You look into his eyes and see the compassion he really holds. He knew this is what would win you over and he knew this would be the point in the night you decided to sleep with him. When you slip your hand into his hand, your arm under his shoulders and your tongue into his mouth, he expected every moment.

He knows you because he wrote you. He created you. You are his.