mindwrought:

You fell in love with a writer. Expect great things. Prose spilled about you purple as a princess’s dress. Romantic notions, even if they aren’t coaxed into being, at least take up space in a mind preoccupied with the tales of everything. Narratives spilling out of every object. Words surrounding you, rolling you up in a quilt of soft syllables and laying you in a bed of many names.

Expect lavish things. Words hand-picked from a thesaurus, delectable diction with just enough tumbling of sounds to make it difficult to read; like an apple, difficult to chew but worth the effort.

Expect sad things. For writing is often sad. Pessimistically philosophical. Sentences, fragments, paragraphs of depression put into words so as not to be put into actions. Expect your love to fall for characters created, for perfect plot lines and admirable adversaries; attention you should be given but that is given to others. But at least they’re not real, except to the one who believes them.

Expect waiting. The horse latitudes of life, where writer’s block becomes reality block. Where nothing happens, autopilot takes over the warm body, and the warmth fades, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. Expect times when you are second. First comes the story, the journal, the writing. The prisoner thoughts must be freed to know the world, to experience life.

Expect many things. But most of all, expect happiness. You have entered a mystical relationship, more magical than Snow White and more beautiful than poetry. A relationship more alluring than a will-o’-the-wisp and as perfect than the surface of a newly frozen lake.