Sunday, December 18, 2011

There's Something About a Woman. . .

As an aspiring writer there are many things I enjoy about reading a good book, becoming educated by an article, coming across a single quote. . . one of the greatest enjoyments I get out of reading is the ways in which characters, women specifically, are described. Words are extremely powerful and have a way of moving me in a way that actions sometimes lack. The quote below moved me in an indescribable way. . . to tears, to an increased pulse, to aspire to write better:

“So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.” -John Green Looking for Alaska

So, here's my question- if you could be written- your character, your looks, your actions, what you mean to people- how would you want to be written?
In a perfect world, this is how someone would write me. . . in a perfect world, this is how you would see me, perceive me, write me:

She sits with her back to me. The chair in which she is perched is heavy, gold and bronze, and with thick padded straw pieces making up the cushion for the bottom. She is curled up within herself; one leg under her butt and the other folded as she delicately rests the chin of her heart-shaped face on her knee.
Her hair is an exquisite mess; piled high on top her head in what looks to be an effortless masterpiece. What makes it so lovely is that her hair is far too short, so although there are brown and black bobby pins sporadically placed throughout, her silky, shiny hair falls in delicate tendrils all about her face.
She stares at the white screen, the cursor blinks- taunting, bullying. She shifts herself, raises her hands above her head, revealing skin that begs to be traced,  then reaches for the sweating glass of iced tea on the desk; She brings the tall glass to her full, parted lips and takes a swallow of the refreshing brew.
She softly hums and drums the chipped, red polished fingernails upon the arm of the chair. I don't know what the tune is, but it is so sweet a tune she deserves a harpist in accompaniment.
I watch as she turns her neck, her eyes meet mine- a gift in the form of a smile. . .
She returns to face the daunting task of a game of concentration against that God forsaken cursor. . . A long lock of hair falls swiftly from the arrayed birds' nest atop her head.
Her hands move to the keyboard. . . A life is born.

Would you be sexy? Would you be sweet? Would your author write you as untouchable? As irresistible? As irreplaceable?

I am a firm believer in the written word, clearly, and I can assure you that every author in existence has fallen in love and written that love in a story. . . at least once. I can also assure you that a woman's curves, the luxurious purr of her voice, the way her tongue might feel inside your mouth- it's going to be softer, sexier, and more erotic on a page than spoken across telephone wires. The way you're shaken to the core with adoration for your beloved? More lovely written on college ruled notebook paper than whispered in an ear.

Words are powerful, meaningful, forever. So- shake some one's core- write them a love letter. Quicken a pulse- write about what you want to do to your lover tomorrow night. Make an impression- create a journal out of fragments of moments that took your breath away, out of the plethora of dimensions that are in the iris of her eye, out of the simple things that that person does to make your toes curl, heighten your senses, make them that person.

In a perfect world, when someone would write me, this is what the reader would learn about me: I'm a writer, I'm special, I am unforgettable, irreplaceable, a core shaker.

Your turn . . .

-Stephi D.

1 comment:

  1. She's an emotional roller coaster inside a body that hasn't been an amusement park in far too long. . .
    Her smile can light up a room as quickly as her temper can shut it down. . .
    The gold flecks in her hazel eyes sparkle in happy times, as the mood of her heart changes the shade of green surrounding those flecks. . . .

    Don't piss her off.
    Don't break her heart.