On Dating A Writer.

I recently showed my boyfriend a love letter my friend's boyfriend wrote her. Afterwards, he made a smug comment: "I know, deep down, you wish I’d write you a cheesy letter like that. If he wrote me a love letter, it would go like this: Dear X, Thanks for moving to New York 7 years ago. Thanks, L. Even though he's intelligent and as sharp as a corner of a Lego when you step on it, he’s the most articulate (and quite frankly, the best) when he's trying to teach me something technical.

* * *
He was a writer. An actual writer. Who got paid. For a living. Something I once aspired to be.

His writing consumed me. His prose captivated me. His characters became friends and enemies. His plots and conflicts were simple yet deep. And at the end of each read I'd find myself in a withdrawal, thinking it could not possible for me to read anything so meaningful ever again.

In retrospect, I was probably more enthralled with the idea of him and his writing, as opposed to who he really was.

One night after dinner, we decided to walk the 20 blocks back to my apartment instead of taking a cab or train. Within 5 blocks, it started pouring. It was a full-on springtime monsoon. As if the clouds decided to explode on the earth. The kind of rain that only happens in kdramas. I did the only thing I thought was logical. I ran. I sprinted down Broadway and finally stopped when I reached shelter under some scaffolding. I waited and caught my breath while I searched for him through the waterfall-like rain. When he finally appeared, he was soaked from head to toe. "You know, you don't stay any drier if you run in the rain," he said when he reached me. I wanted to challenge him but judging from the way we were both soaked, he probably wasn't wrong.

We walked the last couple blocks. It was cold and painful, unlike the kdramas and Hollywood films that have brainwashed me to think otherwise. A block away from my apartment, he stopped me. I stared up at him under the pouring rain, shivering, teeth chattering, makeup dripping down my face. He tucked some loose strands of hair behind my ear and leaned in, reminiscent of that one time I thought a cyborg spy was trying to kidnap me.

"What are you doing?" I stuttered through my chattering teeth.
"Shhh...just let it happen." His eyes were still closed.
"But why? What if I don't want to let it happen?" I asked. His eyes opened immediately.
"Why not? It's romantic."

The pressure in my ears rose as I continued to be drenched by the rain. It suddenly dawned on me that the entire time I had known him, everything had been planned, scripted. Honed to perfection to satisfy to his imagination. He had this idea of how we should have been together and I was too blind and/or pathetic to see it.

"I'm freezing! I'm drenched. And this is far from romantic." I held myself and walked away, leaving him in the rain.

When he called a few days later, it was to tell me I had ruined a moment and if I hadn't, it would have been a classic kiss in the rain scene (think: Breakfast at Tiffany's) and we could have had something deep and meaningful. He truly was a master of words because the things he said hurt deeply, whether or not I deserved it.

* * *
Maybe it was his quirks that caused us not to work out. Or maybe it was because I wasn't ready to share romantic-filled moments with somebody. Or maybe it was because we both really only needed the company and critique of another writer, and when we had it, we confused it for something it wasn't.

I can't date writers. I won't. Not because I don't want him to draw inspiration from our conversations or time shared together. I'd be flattered to know that he finds the moments we spent, worthy. I won't date a writer because I need somebody to balance the writer in me.