I don’t fall in love with the way someone looks.
I don’t get a massive crush on a man’s physique
I don’t care what colour his hair is, his eyes, what clothes he likes, what music he’s into (except Coldplay, obviously. Will not tolerate Coldplay under any circumstances).
I am a writer. Writing is what makes me happy. Reading makes me feel whole.
I fall in love with words.
I have been madly in love with Jack Kerouac for twenty years, since I read On the Road (he’s been dead for forty; it doesn’t matter).
I develop massive crushes on men who are able to hold up their end of a conversation. I lust after bloggers who are able to write; I don’t care what they write about, they just have to be good at it.
I read something recently that said when you’re dating, you shouldn’t limit yourself. You should go on dates with whoever happens to ask, regardless of whether you think he’s your “type” or not. You might fall madly in love with someone, if you just allow it to happen.
But I don’t think I could ever over-look the fact that someone just doesn’t like to read.
It’s fine if someone doesn’t know the difference between there and they’re but to not care that there’s a difference, that the words mean two completely different things… I couldn’t live with someone like that.
You don’t have to like the same books as me, but to not like books at all… that these people even exist baffles me entirely.
And yes, you may say “but what about the dyslexics, or those who never learned to read?” And my answer to that is… I know plenty of people who have trouble reading or are dyslexic. It’s not about the ability to read, it’s about the love of words. The conviction that no movie, no matter how good the acting or how amazing the CGI, will ever be even close to as good as what you can imagine when you pick up the book. Even Harry Potter. Especially Harry Potter.