Wednesday, July 17, 2013


If You Really Love a Writer
by: Megan Falley

"How vain it is to sit down to write
when you have not stood up to live.”

—Henry David Thoreau

Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years
I’ve acquired stacks: one is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its
spine. Another is tree-friendly, its paper reincarnated from diaries of
poets now graying in cubicles. One is small and black as a funeral dress,
its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one
that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide beneath it—and
I wonder why? For every blown-out candle, every Mazel Tov, every
turn of the tassel, we are handed what a writer dreads most: blank
pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea
carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs,
any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we repeat our lines
deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we
become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck
her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who shares her
name and take her to it. When her door is plastered with an eviction
notice, do not offer your home. Say I Love You, then call her the wrong
name. If you really love a writer, bury her in all your awful and watch
as she scrawls her way out.

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