Writers are terrible people and even worse partners. You cannot depend on writers. Writers live rich and vivid lives inside of their heads and often ignore anything and anyone that interrupts their thoughts. Writers can be romantic and in the moment, then – boom! – they disappear in front of your eyes as they wander off into the LaLa Land of their thoughts and plots and stories and arc and characters and narratives and endings and language structure. A writer will think to himself, as he is getting out of the shower in the morning, “I must iron a shirt before going out for the day.” Unless the writer irons that shirt within 10 seconds, he will brush his teeth and forget about the shirt.
Also, writers reveal secrets. They will not reveal these secrets to their small circle of intimates. No, they reveal their most deeply held secrets to an audience of strangers. You do not want to get close to a writer. You never know what or when or how they are going to dangle your dirty laundry outside for the world to inspect. And they make stuff up, so you are never sure what’s real and what’s fake. Writers are essentially damaged people whose best therapy is writing. Writers might smile and laugh and be good at sports and love their children. However, all writers are sad, damaged people. Why else would they live in their heads and shut themselves off from the world to write? They are like only children.