COVER STORY
A Star-Crossed Love Letter Traveling a path paved with romance and realness
By Jason Tinney Pulse contributor
“
We are both writers and performers. In spite of the inherent moodiness of artists, being artists together is a romance in itself.”
I
LOVE WATCHING HER SLEEP, LISTENING TO HER DEEP breaths like the purr of a cat. I love the moment when she wakes, slips closer to my chest. I’ve never fit with anyone the way I fit with her. Clicking together like snaps on a western shirt. We hold onto each other through the night. Desperate not to let go or lose sight of one another—even in our dreams. The light is just rising as I thumb through the Moleskine pages of notebooks in the Faulkner Room, our William Faulkner-inspired office packed with books, desks, and four typewriters. The pages fall gently with the last soft flakes of snow blanketing Chattanooga sidewalks. It’s a week before Valentine’s Day and my partner, the love of my life, is asleep in the bedroom. I have a ritual of waking her up by whispering birdsong in her ears: Sweet
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Virginia, Sweet Virginia I call in one. Pretty Bird, Pretty Bird I sing in the other. I’ve given her nicknames to match each layer to her quirky personality. Buttons, Roller Coaster, Hot Rod. But Sweet Virginia is my favorite for this delicately fierce little bird. She calls me Jackson, sometimes Charlie. I never understood where Charlie came from—it’s not a family name and there is no funny anecdote on how it came to be. “Sometimes you get this sweet, youth-
ful look. A Charlie look,” she tells me. For the last week, I’ve come into the Faulkner room around 3 a.m. to try to get some sleep. Our tortoiseshell cat, Percy, has decided this is the time she must be fed and I am the one that must do it. She’ll hop into bed and sit an inch from my face, and stare. It’s a bit terrifying, especially when she hovers over my ear, breathing. From time to time she snorts, shaking drops of drool on my ear and cheek. While I love the cat, her affection can drive me out of bed. My mind is made up that Percy and Sweet Virginia watch too many Lifetime movies and the cat has concocted some divide and conquer scheme. As soon as I go into the next room, the cat contents herself upon my pillow and falls asleep next to my wife. So I’ve been spending a lot of time surrounded by typewriters and old notebooks scribbled full of memories. Star-crossed love letters, really. We are both writers and performers. In spite of the inherent moodiness of artists, being artists together is a romance in itself. That passion brought us together five years ago. She’d seen me play harmonica once at a literary festival in Baltimore. A mutual friend told her I was an author and had a book coming out. She wanted to interview me for a literary journal she edited and asked to meet for coffee. I’d never met her, but she won me over in her email: “I am from Kentucky, love bourbon, horses, and I am part Cherokee.” I shared this introduction with a bandmate and she said, “Uh-oh.” I remember the first time I saw Sweet Virginia. Of course, I could barely make eye contact with her over that cup of coffee. Her natural beauty intimidated me into a loss for words. But it was more than her appearance. Before we even shook
