I always thought dating a writer would be perfect. We’d spend Sunday mornings lazying in bed after a late omelette and coffee breakfast. We’d discuss the latest Bikozulu post; reminisce the good old Whispers’ days and quip at how no one will ever fill the legend’s shoes. We’d later on wake up, shower and browse the Sunday Nation together. Ofcourse we’d flip through the politics and news, too much garb. We’d go straight to the pull out magazine and muse at whatever will catch our eyes. Then we’d go through Mwalimu Andrew’s latest shenanigans.
We’d fill the week’s crosswords to gauge our vocabulary, and perhaps later on play some scrabble. We’d cook lunch together then curl up on the couch with our respective books in hand later in the afternoon. We’d enjoy the silence and it wouldn’t feel awkward. I’d read his work during the week and give him feedback, some pointers here and there. I’d never get bored. Our relationship would be one unfading rainbow.
If you had thoughts like mine, well, I’m about to burst your bubble. It’s only rosy in your imagination. It’s one of those things that are only good if you can’t have them. Like unicorns; they only seem pretty in dreamland. Can you imagine having a horse that can fly and has a horn in real life? Horrific, right?
Writers are broody little creatures. Their moodswings are worse than those of an adolescent girl going through PMS. You never know when to comment; when to throw in a joke or jibe lest they explode. One moment you’d be talking harmlessly the next , you’re knees deep in an argument.
And if you thought the silence would be comfortable, too bad for you. The silence will be louder than those Embasava matatus. You’d feel like screaming just to steal their attention at the expense of feeling needy. You’d want them to hold you but they’d be engrossed, head bent, fingers typing away profusely, eyes fixed on their laptop screen. They probably won’t notice your existence. You’d feel jealous of their writing; you’d want them to love you just as much as they love their words. It probably won’t happen.
Then you’ll become sad. You’ll start hating them. Their writing will no longer excite you. Why? Because your perspective changed. You fused the writer and with their writing. You fell in love with their writing and imagined dating the writer would be as beautiful. Big mistake; recipe for disappointment. ….