Love is a tricky thing. It can flow in with the waves of the Atlantic, or it can be strangled and thrown to you as two magnets thrust into each other’s arms. 

Everyone goes about love differently. Some like the feeling of being loved more than the feeling of loving another person.  Most love the person and decide to go to the next level. Yet for writers, it’s tricky to love someone. 

All yours will become theirs. You will become their sun and moon. Their great ambition on this despondent morrow. Who could blame them? Their dramatics and obsessions is what brought them down to their pen. To enclose all damned and daunting prospects of what they so wish they had. 

When you’re loved by a writer, you’re immortal. Your love and tales shall be spread far and wide. Maybe anonymously, maybe not. They shall become enraged by those that hurt you and become psychopathically in love with everything around them. You will bring about their joy and happiness. 

But heed this, for if you were to take it all away, their inferno of love shall be extinguished. They will care only for the memory of the star. That star upon which your love appeared once before. So tell me, dear reader, would you ever love a writer? Would you fuel their pen? Only fate and the gods know for sure.