It would be simplest to say that my wife and I, both writers, met each other through words. During high school, when I first courted her – if you can even call it that – I would stop by Jen’s house on my way home from track practice and sit in her living room and talk to her. That is all I did for about four months. Just talk to her. We were both talkers, you see, so it was the easiest way to begin. Years later, when we reunited, I was living in Los Angeles and she was living in Seattle. For nine months we would talk for hours on the phone and write long letters to one another until I quit pretending I wanted to write screenplays and moved to Seattle where I have been ever since.

So that is one story, and it is true enough. By the time I moved in with her, at the wise old age of 25, we had talked and written and talked and written so much it was as if I had moved in with a relative.

But there is another story, and really it has nothing to do with words, at least not ours. The words in this case belonged to Shakespeare. The first time I saw Jen she was playing the role of Tranio is a high school production of Taming of the Shrew. Though I had never met her, though I had never heard of her, sitting in that darkened theater I recognized Jen immediately.

Words are my tool of choice and I have learned to love them, but they are by their very nature narrow in their individual aim. It is my and probably every writer’s life work to find within them the breadth of life itself. But I will always fall short. My words are at best a suggestion, a note of sorts to myself, left on my own desk, to remind me of what I already know.

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