Last night I was talking to my best friend (we can't decide if BFF dog tags or Twin Peaks merchandise better honor our friendship) about an astrologer/astrophysicist she's dating.
We also discussed whether we'd date writers, and both of us came out against.
This aversion started way-back-when with male English majors. Remember them? Their tousled hair, flannel shirts, and dreams of working at Rolling Stone? The played the 'sensitive' card when necessary, with their soulful essays on Leaves of Grass. Maybe once in "Johnson's Age of Exuberance" class he caught you watching him jam out, offered you his headphones, and said "Want to listen?" It was Luna, "Chinatown." You thought it meant something. On the weekends, though, he was schtupping the management majors with huge tits.
In his 20's, the male writer is a social creature, enjoying happy hour specials at many fine watering holes. You meet him, maybe at the bar. Gradually, you understand that he's collecting details about you to develop a character he can describe to his friends or use in a story. How your great-uncle abused you and now you can't stand the barista's accidental touch when he hands over your change? Genius! He has just the place for it.
Fast forward.
The male English major--let's call him Ed--he's 40 now, and married. He has a wife and two kids named Adèle and Harry.
Ed publishes his second novel, about a forty-year-old white guy, a program manager at a nonprofit (named Ted), who resents his job, and resents his wife for making him give up the Rolling Stone internship he was almost-nearly offered, before they had their kids Helene and Freddy. On the weekends Ted and his friend drive out to the shore and pop Vicodin. In the novel's climax, someone beats Ted's wife to death with a hammer. Did Ted do it? Will her family side with him? Conflict!
In short: I don't date male writers because they think too much. And I've already cornered that market.
We also discussed whether we'd date writers, and both of us came out against.
This aversion started way-back-when with male English majors. Remember them? Their tousled hair, flannel shirts, and dreams of working at Rolling Stone? The played the 'sensitive' card when necessary, with their soulful essays on Leaves of Grass. Maybe once in "Johnson's Age of Exuberance" class he caught you watching him jam out, offered you his headphones, and said "Want to listen?" It was Luna, "Chinatown." You thought it meant something. On the weekends, though, he was schtupping the management majors with huge tits.
In his 20's, the male writer is a social creature, enjoying happy hour specials at many fine watering holes. You meet him, maybe at the bar. Gradually, you understand that he's collecting details about you to develop a character he can describe to his friends or use in a story. How your great-uncle abused you and now you can't stand the barista's accidental touch when he hands over your change? Genius! He has just the place for it.
Fast forward.
The male English major--let's call him Ed--he's 40 now, and married. He has a wife and two kids named Adèle and Harry.
Ed publishes his second novel, about a forty-year-old white guy, a program manager at a nonprofit (named Ted), who resents his job, and resents his wife for making him give up the Rolling Stone internship he was almost-nearly offered, before they had their kids Helene and Freddy. On the weekends Ted and his friend drive out to the shore and pop Vicodin. In the novel's climax, someone beats Ted's wife to death with a hammer. Did Ted do it? Will her family side with him? Conflict!
In short: I don't date male writers because they think too much. And I've already cornered that market.
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