What will you write?

I will write this until I have turned the story into something outside of us, something bigger than us, something that lives and breathes and talks all on its own.  I will write this until it can tell me for itself what happened. I will write this because nothing will ever be the same.  Because someday you will fall for a woman who knows how to make small talk with people she doesn’t like, who doesn’t lie beside you in bed at night talking about how it was David Foster Wallace’s wife who found him after he hung himself.  I will write this because life is long until the day it will never be long enough, but time is irrelevant to love.  We didn’t lose anything, but this is what I found.  I will write this because maybe I will find other men --men who like to wake up in the morning and make their own cup of coffee and read the paper and who I admire in a distant way for their lovely simplicity, men who drink too much and fuck too hard and who I take pleasure in not hating.  I will write this because I heard someone say once that every story worth writing will come to the writer before she’s twenty five.  I will write this because other girls want diamonds and dream houses.  I want the story.  I will write this because I’ve decided it would be good for me to commit to something and telling the story is the only commitment I’m sure I know how to make.  Because life is a love story.   Anyone who says otherwise just doesn’t understand love.  We’re all in love with something.