This One’s for You

For You,

I don’t know who you are. I don’t have anyone specific in mind as I’m writing this. More than likely I’ve never met you. And maybe I’m only having a laugh with myself here, or maybe this is another of my cynical games, or maybe you don’t exist, or maybe I don’t even want you to exist.

But if you do exist, you’ll read these words someday.

If you do exist, you’re the hill I’ll choose to die on. The mother of my children. The love of my life.

(The old ball and chain, as they say…)

I’ll be honest with you. I’m getting myself to write this letter by telling myself I’m being totally cynical. By promising myself this is really only one of my cynical ploys to extract more sex from women. By trying very hard to believe that what I’m really up to here is exploiting some feminine desire to see the best in even the worst of monsters.

And maybe that’s what I’m up to. But maybe you really do exist, and maybe we’ll really love each other, and maybe this is me calling out to you.

And that thought terrifies me. But it doesn’t only terrify me. For some reason I have tears in my eyes and feel an odd swelling emotion as I write this. It’s in the back of my neck and spine, a sort of warm tingling, but mostly in the chest and mostly the word that comes to mind to describe it is “swelling.”

It’s not a familiar feeling, or at least it hasn’t been for a long time. I don’t know what to call it. But it’s not simple horniness, which is all I’ve let myself feel for women for several years. It’s a feeling of vulnerability, tinged with fear, but at the same time a pleasurable feeling.

Probably it’s what they call yearning, or even (ugh!) love.

Anyway. Like I said, the thought terrifies me. And I want to make that clear from the beginning. I want to be able to tell you the truth, even if it’s a harsh, brutal, unpleasant truth. And (although this thought terrifies me too) I want you to be able to tell me the truth, even if it’s a harsh, brutal, unpleasant truth. Because I know myself well enough to know that if I feel I have to lie to you it will gnaw on me until I begin to hate and resent you. And you’re a human being, you’re probably the same way.

I’ve been there before, in more ways than one. And I’d rather die alone and childless than go there again. I could live with that. As long as I stick to my writing, I’ll have more than enough meaning in life.

I’d rather be on my own than shackle myself to you, is what I’m saying here. Unless I honestly believe it would be a net gain in my life — which if I’m really honest is something I struggle to see myself ever believing.

And another thing: my writing is my life. Remember what I said about how as long as I stick to it I’ll have more than enough meaning in my life.

That’s the simple truth. My writing is my first priority. If I really love you, you’ll be number two, and any little parasites (whoops, meant “kids”) we might have will be number three. You’ll have to be able to accept that. Maybe you know Lovelace’s poem, “To Lucasta, Going to the Wars.” It’s the speech of a man to his wife or sweetheart, explaining why he has to go fight in the English Civil War. He talks about how he’s chasing a new mistress, “the first foe in the field” — the underlying metaphor being that the war is like a love affair for him. But the short poem ends with this perfect quatrain:

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee (Dear) so much,

Lov’d I not Honour more.

That’s just the nature of romantic love, possibly. If it’s going to be healthy, if it’s going to be good, if it’s going to be part of a life worth living, it can never be the first priority. Sure, we all have fantasies about an all-consuming love, but that’s the thing about things that are all-consuming: they’re all-consuming.

Simple truth. My writing will always mean more to me than anyone, even you. No doubt you’ll have something, even several things, you love more than me.

Probably you’re enough of a realist that these things don’t disturb you the way they disturb me. Much as I’d like to imagine myself falling in love with a dark-haired lady writer who loves Dostoevsky and Heidegger, that’s just a narcissistic fantasy. Probably what would be better for me is a reasonable, grounded woman who does something I would find unbearably boring (accounting, maybe, or law) and loves Jane Austen. (If only you could see how my eyes roll as I type that name!)

Probably would be best if we “balanced each other out,” as they say. Although at times I’m sure you’ll exasperate me with what I’ll consider your appalling lack of imagination, just as I’ll frustrate you with my difficulty understanding basic concepts like the importance of paying the mortgage every month.

So now that I’ve scared everybody away with my total unsuitability as a mate, let me tell you about some of my little romantic fantasies. I do have an awful lot of them, if I’m being honest — and if I’ve avoided love one of the reasons for that is that the reality seems so pale and messy compared to the wonderful fantasy.

I’ve always been a sucker for a good love story. Disney’s Beauty and the Beast was always a favorite — it would always ignite an awful lot of emotions in me. (Naturally I mean the original animated film, not the live-action remake, which I haven’t bothered seeing and you’re not going to convince me to see. And even if you did convince me to see it, I’d make it uncomfortable by spending the whole time going on at length about all the things I would like to do to Emma Watson.) Moulin Rouge was another, and maybe Sweeney Todd and Edward Scissorhands, if you’ll let me get away with calling those love stories.

But those are just stories I’ve enjoyed. Let me reveal a bit of my own story.

I met my first “girlfriend” in my freshman year of high school. Very innocent first love. Of course, we thought we were very daring indeed, but looking back I have to smile at our innocence. We kissed on the lips — but no tongue, that would be too much! She did sit in my lap once, I remember — which when you’re a teenager hopped up on your own hormones and separated from the Great Unknown by only a few layers of fabric is actually quite an experience.

God, haven’t remembered that in years…

I think it was what they call puppy love. More being in love with the idea of being in love and not really being in a hurry to move things along in any way.

But there were some intense emotions involved. Emotions I would express through little love poems I’d write for her — not very good poems, mind you, mostly drivel along the lines of “you’re so great, I love you so much, etc., etc.”

(Of course, I don’t know that for sure. I gave her the only copies of the poems, and for all I know she may still have them somewhere. I haven’t asked.)

And at the time she wanted to be an artist, so she would reciprocate my poems with her art. Mostly little pencil drawings of flowers — she was particularly fond of roses — but not limited to that.

I deeply enjoyed being able to express my love for her in a way that came naturally and spontaneously to me — through poetry. And to see that my poems delighted her and gave her a very real pleasure… well, maybe a lot of my cynicism about love comes from the fact that I’ve never found that again. Or at least not in any way nearly so intense.

It would be nice to write love poems for a woman again, and to really mean them.

Anyway. Like I said, the only way I’ve managed to get myself to write this letter is by promising myself I’m being entirely cynical. Now, whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. I’m not completely transparent to myself. At the very least I’m opening myself up to the possibility that I’m not being entirely cynical — which in itself is a fairly terrifying step.

But I think I’ve been honest here. I think what I’m expressing here is what I really am. Although of course it’s impossible to say everything.

So to wrap up. If you do exist, I’m sure you’ll read this eventually. But with any luck the first of my writings you encounter will be something much, much better than this.

With Love (maybe),

Geofrey