This writing experiment is going to be different for me. I’ve never participated in one of these as a soon to be married man. I’ve never participated in anything as a soon to be married man. I’ve dated many girls that knew I was a writer, loved that I was a writer, thought that my writing was great, but I’ve never been with someone that was also a writer, and a writer with far more talent than me.
You talk about things when you are planning your life with someone. About the type of couple you want to be, more so the ones you don’t want to be. “We’ll never be like that, right?” “Of course not, babe.” We all sure fucking hope so.
We’re both creative people. I’d say that creativity is the sole thing keeping us on this Earth. It’s less of a choice. We did a project together one time and it was title “Create or Suffer.” Those are the only options. So it’s not about choosing to have this happy life it’s more about putting on your super fast shoes and running so fast you wonder whose legs you are on and hoping that all those muddy ghosts can’t catch you.
We talk about writing. Because we both want to write. And write all the time. And write about things that we normally write about. It’s safe to assume that neither of us were virgins before we met. It’s a fact between us that we can be cynical and our greatest contribution to the world and to each other is our observations. She can see through it all. She is the best at seeing it. That is why sometimes I am nervous around her. Not when I’m in my world doing the things that make me great, nothing touches me then, but when I’m a bit scared or insecure because sometimes the Earth shakes and I can’t find my footing. It becomes a dance of filters. Her filters and my filters and everyone’s filters that care about anything we do.
Have you ever tried to plan a wedding? Me neither. Apparently mother-daughter relationships run pretty fierce. My dad used to hit me a little bit here and there. One time I called a teammate of mine gay when I was 10. My dad didn’t say anything until we got home and he didn’t say much when we got there either other than the back of his hand hitting the side of my head until my mom told him to stop. But that’s fine because when I got older I could hit him back and I could hurt him real good and he stopped trying to hit me because nature was in order and it was my time. But a mother can say things to a daughter that hurt worse than knuckles. And they hurt forever.
I have found someone I love more than hot water with lemon and it is now my duty to kill every single person that even looks at her the wrong way. And I just want her to know that if I could I’d hit anyone over the head with an empty handle of Captain Morgans but I’d rather she just knew that when she walks down the aisle I am going to duct tape my heart to my chest because I’ve already seen a very distant and very darkly lit picture of her dress and when she looks up at me my life will never be the same.
So when we talk about writing and we talk about writing together we say that we have to keep being honest and write about the things that matter to us and are true to us. But what matters to me now is her. Other things matter, of course, and will matter always as they come up and are relevant but when I wake up in the morning on these days she matters very much. But it’s a dangerous game for writers to write about each other. I’m already feeling, not feeling, analyzing all of this. I try to stay in the moment and follow it all with my fingers and the keys but then my brain catches up and then it gets ahead and starts steering and at that point, this point, it’s all lost and I can’t be trusted to be anything.
I used my experiences with dating women as writing material. I don’t date women anymore. I’m marrying one woman now and I’m sure the world would puke in harmony if I spent all my time writing about how much I love her.
It makes you wonder about all the stories you have on the shelf. The ones from the Europe trip or the dating streak or the time two years ago when you were so mad at your future wife because she wasn’t ready to be your future wife that you said a couple things to your journal that might not have been that nice.
What do you do with these stories? They are some of your best writing. But they don’t feel relevant anymore.
We made this promise with each other. That we were going to keep writing. I promised myself I would publish a chunk of story from a time in my life that I wouldn’t really want her to read. If I read details about her past relationships or sex life I’d have to jump into a pool of glass shards. But I want her to write whatever she needs to write. And I want to write whatever I need to write. God help us that we are sick people and we have finally found each other.
I’m most honest to my journal. The things that make for great stories are the opposing details or dissenting opinions that people might not default to but have certainly harbored in their sickest state and wish that they could say freely to anyone that would listen.
What happens when we are honest enough to prevent people from agreeing with us? Not conflict just for the sake of being an asshole but good feedback that is true and unfiltered and requires people to stop and think for a while and not be too sure if they want to hang out with you again for a while. But you will have been honest and put on a track that doesn’t involve the gesturing of people that don’t impress you anyway. I say this – if you don’t admire someone’s life then fuck them anyway. Otherwise we’re just a bunch of angry people not doing shit and not helping ourselves out anyway.
I just want to be honest, and in love, and a writer. Those are the three things that I want the most.
It’s reasonable to think that someone runs until they are tired or until they like walking because the things they see and the person they are walking with are nice.