Wooing with writing: A story’s quick end

HER name was vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t put a face on “Diane Court.” Luckily, her photo was right next to her online moniker. She was not like those MySpace girls -- there wasn’t a bit of cleavage to be found. Instead she chose a shot that was not in focus enough to be crisp and clean and not blurry enough to indicate incompetence. Even the hues were arty; the colors were as subtle as those you find on a hand-painted black and white photo. All the better to highlight her blue eyes and dark blond hair.

The thousand words of her picture still didn’t explain who she was, so I clicked on her handle.

She described herself as “open and cagey; passionate and pragmatic; sincere and sarcastic.” The punctuation? Diverse and used correctly.

She also reported that she had a pattern of dating men whom her friends described as “goofy hip.” Still, she admitted that she was looking for someone who “used semi-colons often and well.”

She had my proverbial number and I wanted hers, so I decided to write. But first things first, what was up with that name? Google had the answer: She was the Juliet to Lloyd Dobler’s Romeo in “Say Anything” -- the 1989 Cameron Crowe chick flick pairing an outsider kickboxer (John Cusack with a scar over his eye) and the brainy, virginal valedictorian (Ione Skye).

The sane thing would have been to write a colloquial introductory e-mail that highlighted the qualities I had that matched the ones she was looking for. That, and break up the independent clauses with a semicolon. But there’s not a lot of fun in the road almost always taken.

So, I assumed the identity of the now-thirtysomething kickboxer and wrote from Dobler’s perspective. I outlined what might have transpired after the closing scene of the movie when Lloyd and Diane boarded an airplane for Europe with nothing but potential on the horizon.

Call it a synopsis for the yet-unwritten “Say Anything 2: How Lloyd Got His Diane Back.”

Here it is.

Ms. Court,

Is it still “Ms.”? God, I hope so. It’s me: Lloyd. Don’t worry about my online name. I tried to use “LloydDobler” as my screen name initially. It lasted for about six seconds until thousands of e-mails to me crashed Match.com’s server. The company insisted that I change my name. I’m not big on being told what to do, but for you it’s only one of the sacrifices I’m willing to make

Oddly, a lot of people knew about me and you. I’m curious as to how that happened. But I’m off-track. Sorry. I know you always hated my tangents; the way I “took side streets because everyone else took the highway.”

I’m sure that you were not expecting to hear from me after what happened. Please don’t delete this e-mail. I’ll keep it short, and I’ll refrain from adding a streaming Peter Gabriel song to this missive. Obviously, I received the OED you sent after my sentencing. I’ve been reading it ever since. You’re right -- it’s the one book I cannot rip in half. I even convinced my cellmate to hold it while I tried to kick it in two. Every time I limped down to the cafeteria for the next three months, I thought of you.

Before I say anything, let me tell you that the days we spent together in England were the best of my life. I loved feeding you crisps as you studied, and sneaking a pack of Smarties into your bag when you headed off to the library. Sure, the kickboxing scene across the pond was lacking, but it was a small price to pay. The only reason I returned to the U.S. for that tournament was to earn a little money to spend on you. And, I have to say, to get some Pringles.

When there, I visited your father in prison and I don’t have to tell you how persuasive he is. Here comes my apology: I’m sorry for breaking him out. I know that you wanted him to rot there and think about what he did. In his defense, I’m sure he is contrite. Even if it is on a beach in Antigua. What can I do to make you forgive me?

Lloyd, a.k.a. Steve

I sent it and waited. I was looking for a happy ending and a new start. Didn’t happen; that awful Diane never wrote back, and she left the dating service altogether about two weeks later. Her silence taught me a lesson: Replying to a personal ad is rarely an exercise in creative writing.

weekend@latimes.com