A Writer's Philosophy [currently : on hold]

A Writer's Philosophy

❝ Do you know how much you're worth?

Neither did I until I met you. ❞

Typing. It never stopped or ceased. From the moment he woke up, that’s what the house started to fill with. Angry fingers smashing buttons as if the idea was a deer that he was trying to chase before it disappeared from sight. You would think, since he was a writer that he would talk to everybody-trying to get people’s life experiences to make his stories more relatable…the type that touches you in your soul and makes you feel something so that when you pull yourself out of the book that you feel a sense of longing to finish. But that was the thing about him. He didn’t need to talk to multiple people to get his head out of the clouds and into his feelings-because that’s just what he did without talking. He let himself sit there with his feelings at his fingertips as he wrote.

Green Tea. Lipton. He had to have it served piping hot-don’t ask her why because he hadn’t been talking to her since she confessed that she hadn’t seen ‘The Wizard of Oz’ a few weeks ago. She had tried watching it but had fallen asleep on the couch, when she woke up…she had half expected him to tuck her in but instead the living room was far too cold without the blanket. In a groggy state, she walked into the bedroom only to see him asleep with the blankets covering his figure. He took the blanket. The girl often wondered why she stayed with him but she was hopelessly in love. Young naïve blind love made her stay with him in the apartment that often times was messy because he didn’t clean up after himself. He would wake up at odd hours and get dressed in suit & tie just to write. Other times he would come to bed with the t-shirt and jeans he wore just to sit around the house. He would take a bottle of wine in and drink between paragraphs to see if his inner creativity would be unleashed after he was drunk out of his mind. Other times he would forget to eat and when she gave him the food, she often would have to sit there and feed him because he would say over and over again “One more paragraph. Honest.”

Most people would have been fed up with him, but Cameron wasn’t. She was perfectly fine with it all because when he wasn’t bent over backwards for his work-which was rare-he was the sweetest guy she knew. He would often wake her early so they could sit on the couch and watch the sun rise from between all of the tall buildings that surrounded their apartment.  He would surprise her with flowers on a day that she didn't have time to put them in a vase. He would leave notes in her pockets so if she needed a ‘pick me up’ during the day, she could always look in her pockets to see a short poem he wrote her. He would make her get out of the house at one O’clock in the morning to go dance in the parking lot to him singing. He would spend pointless hours trying to make her cat like him...he knew how much that stupid cat meant to her. But there also was a flip side to their love, the one that had seemed to be more recent as Cameron sat and waited for the tea to cool down. When he got mad, he would do things that normal people would never do. He purposely washed all of her white things with his reds and the outcome was Cameron's work shirt being dyed pink. His excuse? He liked pink on her more than boring white. 

It was getting cold. Walking. She always thought that the hallways were too narrow leading up to the bedroom but he insisted that the master bedroom would be his study and they would have to take the bedroom half the size. Typical. He hated cold tea almost as much as he hated the fact that she didn't love black and white movies like him. Typing increased as though he knew she was drawing near. The door creaked open as she held out the tea as if he would stand up and get it. He never did. With one hand he pointed to a stack of crumpled papers. This was his 'I hate this and I'm going to burn it later' pile Cameron had figured out as she walked in.

It was always too cold for any sane person to be still in. But he also was wearing his sweater. It was horrible, a nasty arrange of mustard yellow and deep maroon that made odd designs on the fabric. A snap. Hurry up, the tea is going to get cold. Cameron knew not to speak when he was typing, she was half surprised when he took one hand off the keyboard to point at the stack of papers. Clink. She set it down as she looked at the paper that he was so focused on. Typical, it was full of errors but there was something about him asking her to edit his rough drafts that she felt honored to do. She looked down at the floorboards, not expecting him to say anything as she turned around and shut the door. But as soon as she shut the door she felt her heart sink, she shouldn't have expected him to talk to her. Closing her eyes she whispered through the door a simple "Love you." Before turning around and carrying herself into the living room where she would stay until night fell upon the wide awake city. 

He didn't talk to her that night.

He made her watch the 'Wizard of Oz'

She hated every second of it.

But that was okay because she saw a ghost of a smile on his lips.

It was worth it.

He slept on the couch.

She slept in the bed.

They didn't talk.