The Writer and the Painter
They met. The fateful encounter that changed their lives. The writer was late for a poetry open mic, shuffling papers through his briefcase to find his manuscript. He wasn’t looking up and bumped into the painter, hidden behind a gigantic canvas and an even bigger easel with her hands full of bottles of toxic oil paints with pigments of every color. As they rounded the corner they collided. The writer’s papers flew all over the hallway, and the painter’s paint squirted all over his writing. She had left her mark on him.
“Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you pick up your papers.” She bent over and saw the name on the manuscript. “Arthur O’Connor! Is that you?!”
“Yes.”
“You’re the bestselling author?!”
“Yes.”
“Oh my god, what an honor. I – I – I don’t really know what to say. I – I’m so humbled to meet you. I – ”
“What’s your name?”
“I – I – ” She seemed to almost have forgotten her own name. She had just met a celebrity! But, alas, writers fall in love just as much as painters. And when the creative soul falls for someone, it falls hard. Writers and painters – all creative types – fall head-over-heels madly in love.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Silvia.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And an honor to meet you as well.”
“Silvia, I have to get to my open mic. I’m doing a reading and I’m late. But here’s my card. Keep in touch.”
“And here’s mine, sir.”
“Arthur. Call me Arthur.”
She melted with estrogen. Having picked up all of his papers, he closed his briefcase and headed off to the open mic.
“He’ll probably forget me as soon as he leaves,” thought Silvia.
But, alas. That evening she got an email. It was from Arthur O’Connor! He had her email address from her business card. But it was more than just an email. It was a love letter. As only a writer knows how to pour his heart and soul into writing. She could not help but fall in love with him as she read each word. It was like a romance novel – only not fiction, it was about her and Arthur! This love letter was the best email she had ever received – and the liveliest two pages of nonfiction she had ever read.
So what did she do?
An artist creates, and she was a painter. So she painted a glorious, glamorous portrait of her favorite author.
“Dear Arthur,” she typed in the email, “I have a painting I’d like to give to you. But it’s too big to mail. I guess we’ll just have to meet. It’s a date?”
Six months later the painter and the writer were still together. They loved each other as if they had met yesterday. The passions of a creative soul – be it a painter or a writer – are stronger than a magnet attracted to its opposite pole. He wrote bestselling novels and she illustrated them. Their lives – their passions – their creativity – intertwined. They were artists, and they worked together as a dynamic duo. The writer often published romance novels and there was always a character whose personality and beauty and creativity and charm identically resembled Silvia. But it couldn’t be her, of course, since the characters were not named Silvia. One must respect the ethics of writing about real people. You cannot include real people as characters in your book. So Arthur changed the name and kept Silvia in every one of his books. Likewise, Silvia always had one person in the crowd in all of her masterpieces that resembled Arthur perfectly. He never posed for her – she knew what he looked like even with her eyes closed. She dreamed about him every day. Keeping him in her paintings was her way of being reminded of the love in her life.
Until it happened. When you’re a famous writer, you have fangirls on four continents. Book signings and selfies with the bestselling author often lead to after-hours drinks and literary agent introductions and networking that borders on flirting. And then it happened. Arthur cheated on Silvia.
“I’m sorry, Silvia. I messed up. I’m trying to tell you and be honest with you about my mistake – ”
“Who was it?”
“I – I don’t know her name. Silvia, I have 45,692 followers on Instagram. I have fangirls on four continents. I can’t keep track of ‘em all. I don’t know her name. Just know that it meant nothing.”
But Silvia was heartbroken. Her soulmate had betrayed her. For a nameless fangirl. There was only one thing she could do to get revenge. Cheat on him with as many guys as she could convince to fall in love with her tonight at the bar downtown. Every man she went home with was out of spite for Arthur, not actual love. The emotions of an artist run deep. And vengeance seems all-consuming.
The writer began publishing novels about a vengeful slut. Silvia was no longer the protagonist of his stories but now the lowlife who everyone shamed. Silvia retaliated by painting – splattering oil on canvas with the fire and fury of an enraged artist – and painting Arthur as ugly, decrepit and villainous.
Finally, they regained an even keel. Thirty years passed. They did not talk. They had not seen each other, yet somehow longed for the past.
The writer was shuffling papers in his briefcase, looking for his manuscript, late for his book talk. The painter was rushing to the oil painting class she was teaching, with canvas on gigantic easel covering her face and bottles of toxic oil paints with pigments of every color in her arms. They collided on the corner of the hallway in the arts center, the same corner where they first met. Both stared in disbelief. Then smiled.
“Silvia, I – ”
“Arthur, I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I – um, what are you doing here?”
“I’m doing an author’s talk for my new book. And you?”
“I’m teaching an oil painting class.”
The writer looked down. He looked up, peering deep into Silvia’s beautiful brown eyes. He looked down at his watch.
“My publisher will be there. My agent is organizing my book signing. I’m late, it started – ”
The writer paused. For a man of words, for once in his life he had no words to think of. He was speechless.
“I’m sorry, I should let you go.”
“No, Silvia, wait. I want to tell you something. I love you. I – ”
She approached him and kissed him.
“Silvia, I have 440 tickets sold for my author’s talk today. 440 paying fans waiting to see me right now. But they don’t matter. I’ll skip the reading. Seeing you means it all for me. Would you like to get a coffee at the – ”
“Yes.”
“I could accompany you to your class if you’d like to – ”
“Screw the class. Arthur, you’re the love of my life. The painting class can go without an instructor. They’ll just paint abstract art – a five-year-old could paint that.”
So the two lovers, at last reunited, spent the afternoon catching up – and falling in love all over again.
Finally, six hours late, Arthur arrived at his author’s talk.
His agent approached him. “Arthur, where have you been? We were wondering if we would have to refund a full house! What – ”
“Derek, let me introduce you to Silvia, the love of my life. Those six hours were used to unlock my writer’s block. I’m now inspired to write another ten novels. A love story.”
The agent shook his head. “I’ll never understand writers.”
Arthur walked up the steps of the stage. A crowd of hundreds of fans cheered. He asked Silvia to come up too and take a chair beside him on stage.
“Who’s this?” asked his publisher.
“She’s my illustrator. We have some amazing books in the works together. I write and she does the artwork. To my readers who liked my books so far, I can assure you that the best is yet to come.”
They met. The fateful encounter that changed their lives. The writer was late for a poetry open mic, shuffling papers through his briefcase to find his manuscript. He wasn’t looking up and bumped into the painter, hidden behind a gigantic canvas and an even bigger easel with her hands full of bottles of toxic oil paints with pigments of every color. As they rounded the corner they collided. The writer’s papers flew all over the hallway, and the painter’s paint squirted all over his writing. She had left her mark on him.
“Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you pick up your papers.” She bent over and saw the name on the manuscript. “Arthur O’Connor! Is that you?!”
“Yes.”
“You’re the bestselling author?!”
“Yes.”
“Oh my god, what an honor. I – I – I don’t really know what to say. I – I’m so humbled to meet you. I – ”
“What’s your name?”
“I – I – ” She seemed to almost have forgotten her own name. She had just met a celebrity! But, alas, writers fall in love just as much as painters. And when the creative soul falls for someone, it falls hard. Writers and painters – all creative types – fall head-over-heels madly in love.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Silvia.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And an honor to meet you as well.”
“Silvia, I have to get to my open mic. I’m doing a reading and I’m late. But here’s my card. Keep in touch.”
“And here’s mine, sir.”
“Arthur. Call me Arthur.”
She melted with estrogen. Having picked up all of his papers, he closed his briefcase and headed off to the open mic.
“He’ll probably forget me as soon as he leaves,” thought Silvia.
But, alas. That evening she got an email. It was from Arthur O’Connor! He had her email address from her business card. But it was more than just an email. It was a love letter. As only a writer knows how to pour his heart and soul into writing. She could not help but fall in love with him as she read each word. It was like a romance novel – only not fiction, it was about her and Arthur! This love letter was the best email she had ever received – and the liveliest two pages of nonfiction she had ever read.
So what did she do?
An artist creates, and she was a painter. So she painted a glorious, glamorous portrait of her favorite author.
“Dear Arthur,” she typed in the email, “I have a painting I’d like to give to you. But it’s too big to mail. I guess we’ll just have to meet. It’s a date?”
Six months later the painter and the writer were still together. They loved each other as if they had met yesterday. The passions of a creative soul – be it a painter or a writer – are stronger than a magnet attracted to its opposite pole. He wrote bestselling novels and she illustrated them. Their lives – their passions – their creativity – intertwined. They were artists, and they worked together as a dynamic duo. The writer often published romance novels and there was always a character whose personality and beauty and creativity and charm identically resembled Silvia. But it couldn’t be her, of course, since the characters were not named Silvia. One must respect the ethics of writing about real people. You cannot include real people as characters in your book. So Arthur changed the name and kept Silvia in every one of his books. Likewise, Silvia always had one person in the crowd in all of her masterpieces that resembled Arthur perfectly. He never posed for her – she knew what he looked like even with her eyes closed. She dreamed about him every day. Keeping him in her paintings was her way of being reminded of the love in her life.
Until it happened. When you’re a famous writer, you have fangirls on four continents. Book signings and selfies with the bestselling author often lead to after-hours drinks and literary agent introductions and networking that borders on flirting. And then it happened. Arthur cheated on Silvia.
“I’m sorry, Silvia. I messed up. I’m trying to tell you and be honest with you about my mistake – ”
“Who was it?”
“I – I don’t know her name. Silvia, I have 45,692 followers on Instagram. I have fangirls on four continents. I can’t keep track of ‘em all. I don’t know her name. Just know that it meant nothing.”
But Silvia was heartbroken. Her soulmate had betrayed her. For a nameless fangirl. There was only one thing she could do to get revenge. Cheat on him with as many guys as she could convince to fall in love with her tonight at the bar downtown. Every man she went home with was out of spite for Arthur, not actual love. The emotions of an artist run deep. And vengeance seems all-consuming.
The writer began publishing novels about a vengeful slut. Silvia was no longer the protagonist of his stories but now the lowlife who everyone shamed. Silvia retaliated by painting – splattering oil on canvas with the fire and fury of an enraged artist – and painting Arthur as ugly, decrepit and villainous.
Finally, they regained an even keel. Thirty years passed. They did not talk. They had not seen each other, yet somehow longed for the past.
The writer was shuffling papers in his briefcase, looking for his manuscript, late for his book talk. The painter was rushing to the oil painting class she was teaching, with canvas on gigantic easel covering her face and bottles of toxic oil paints with pigments of every color in her arms. They collided on the corner of the hallway in the arts center, the same corner where they first met. Both stared in disbelief. Then smiled.
“Silvia, I – ”
“Arthur, I’m sorry I didn’t see you. I – um, what are you doing here?”
“I’m doing an author’s talk for my new book. And you?”
“I’m teaching an oil painting class.”
The writer looked down. He looked up, peering deep into Silvia’s beautiful brown eyes. He looked down at his watch.
“My publisher will be there. My agent is organizing my book signing. I’m late, it started – ”
The writer paused. For a man of words, for once in his life he had no words to think of. He was speechless.
“I’m sorry, I should let you go.”
“No, Silvia, wait. I want to tell you something. I love you. I – ”
She approached him and kissed him.
“Silvia, I have 440 tickets sold for my author’s talk today. 440 paying fans waiting to see me right now. But they don’t matter. I’ll skip the reading. Seeing you means it all for me. Would you like to get a coffee at the – ”
“Yes.”
“I could accompany you to your class if you’d like to – ”
“Screw the class. Arthur, you’re the love of my life. The painting class can go without an instructor. They’ll just paint abstract art – a five-year-old could paint that.”
So the two lovers, at last reunited, spent the afternoon catching up – and falling in love all over again.
Finally, six hours late, Arthur arrived at his author’s talk.
His agent approached him. “Arthur, where have you been? We were wondering if we would have to refund a full house! What – ”
“Derek, let me introduce you to Silvia, the love of my life. Those six hours were used to unlock my writer’s block. I’m now inspired to write another ten novels. A love story.”
The agent shook his head. “I’ll never understand writers.”
Arthur walked up the steps of the stage. A crowd of hundreds of fans cheered. He asked Silvia to come up too and take a chair beside him on stage.
“Who’s this?” asked his publisher.
“She’s my illustrator. We have some amazing books in the works together. I write and she does the artwork. To my readers who liked my books so far, I can assure you that the best is yet to come.”
