sexy

The writing is sexy. It is something about the way he marries words and ideas. You can sense his intelligence, you touch it every time you turn the page. He has thought deeply, he has synthsised he has written a careful and thoughtful response. There is nothing copied or generic about this work. This is someting new.

I met him at a writer's festival. I spent the week drunk or hung over. I took my high-heeled boots to work and changed into an evening gown in the cupboard behind the counter, or in the toilets where I painted my lips bright red in the cold flouresence. I worked at half speed, blinking through the alcohol fug and knowing that I would have to dress up and aim myself back into a five day party at the end of each day. I knew I was getting older because of my exhaustion, but also because of my startling tollerance for alcohol.

He came into the bookshop. He perched, mousy quiet, in the cafe. He lurked in the fiction and the non-fiction sections indescriminately. He looked like a libarian, but a sexy one. I hadn't read his book and I joked that it would become my favourite. I flirted because I liked the furtive look of him but I didn't have much energy for it, and there was someone else to flirt with anyway.

"Someone Else". I read it. And now I feel like I have missed the opportunity to touch his hand. The hand that wrote it. There is nothing more sexy that the kind of writing that he is capable of. It is writing that I could never replicate. It is mostly head with enough heart in it to make me weep. I am all heart and sometimes I wonder where my head has been during the writing. I am in awe of him and therefore I am sexually attracted to him. I email him and he emails back and I feel blessed by this little interraction. I want to read everything that has spilled out of his head. I want to put away the pap that I must read to sell at Christmas. I want to spend my time with the authors that he is apeing. I dream in clean lines and I dream of a potential future where I learn to write as he writes.