The thing about the Rockstar is that when we met, I'm pretty sure his expectations of me were low and that every grain of information he's gathered about me since is a pleasant surprise.
We met at a party. He saw a girl in heels, good jeans, long blonde hair, and nails nicely manicured, holding a glass of pinot noir. I could see it in his face early on - he jumped to the conclusion that there wasn’t a whole lot more to me.
Meeting the Rockstar has come at an interesting time in my life, where I can no longer live with being only what others expect. He asks a lot of questions and I've answered pretty honestly. For example, over time he's discovered that I write, and very vaguely, the kinds of things I write. He’s been to my place, seen my bookshelves, lined with everything from Lacan to Richler. I'm beginning to feel like a good book that he wants to read. Part of it is that he’s smart and creative and open, but I think it also has something to do with what I'm putting out there. I'm being myself.
He coaxed me out of my sick bay the other day for thai soup, which totally hit the spot. He brought up how a friend of his is trying to get published and how publishing his work is everything to him. When he asked me what I do with my 'stuff' I told him, "Nothing, really. I write more for myself”.
“That’s fine to a degree", he said "but I think that any form of art is meant to be shared.”
I shrugged, unsure of what to say to that. “I don’t know…”
"I have an idea for you!"
"You should start a blog.”
I tried not to look amused.
“Yeah, seriously, you should.”
I held my breath for a second while he talked about a friend of his who wrote a blog of her travels. Now would be a good time to throw it out there, I thought to myself.
“I’ll take that into consideration”, I told him instead, smiling.
I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt like it would change everything and fast. Maybe next time.