I’ve been sitting on this title for longer than I’d care to admit. I even knew what I wanted to cover in this post. For some reason, until now, I’ve been too embarrassed to follow through with writing and publishing it.
Today’s topic is going to be my literary crushes.
Truth be told, that title serves two purposes: to capture your attention as well as to reveal my poor tastes in men. I always want what I can’t have. You’ll see what I mean.
- Oscar Wilde. He tops my list because he’s tops, and I love him the most. Known for his wit and flamboyant ways, Wilde died of illness in 1900. Also, he was gay. It would never have worked between us. (Someone please take me to Dublin so I can see for myself that that statue is real. THAT SASS.)
- Eric Blair. Also known as George Orwell, Blair died in 1950. I owe my love for dystopian fiction and sense of impending doom to him.
- Ernest Hemingway. “Papa” Hemingway was a man’s man who snagged my heart as easily as he could snag a fish. Known for his adventurous spirit and luck with the ladies, Hemingway hid a sadness few people could imagine. The tortured writer committed suicide in 1961.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald. In spite of the way he treated his wife, I still adore him. He died in 1940. We’ll always have Gatsby.
- George Gordon, Lord Byron. It’s cliche, but I can’t help it. He was legendary for his romantic exploits. I’d like to see what all the fuss was about. Besides, he’s beautiful. Byron died in 1824, probably in the middle of some kind of tryst.