Last night I was at a party with a friend, and this little thing catches a glimpse of us. The first words out of her mouth are "it's so sweet to see a couple in love."
Smile, nod, lie, get out of there as fast as we can.
Because honestly, I don’t do love.
I tried it once, and it didn’t take. It was amazing (he was amazing), but the thought of a husband, kids, and the whole living for another thing just didn’t do it for me. I smiled and laughed and faked it because I knew he wanted me to want it, but everything he wanted was everything that terrified me. And when he broke it off I cried my eyes out, but behind the pain of loosing him was relief at not having to be that person because honestly…
I don’t do love. Case closed. The verdict is in. The other shoe has dropped. End of story…
The only problem is that it isn’t because in reality it’s the beginning of most stories. Girl meets guy. Guy meets girl. They know it instantly, or they refuse to admit it for half of the book until they finally break down and run into each others arms.
It’s different for everyone and those differences are only amplified in literature. The drama, the passion, the sacrifice: all of it.
And as a writer, the necessity of love is something I struggle with everyday. I have no desire to feel it myself (stay away from it like the plague in fact), but it always finds a way into my writing whether I want it there or not. My characters experience everything I refuse myself.
And sometimes at night when I hit save and turn off my computer I can’t help but feel like a hypocrite. I don’t have it or even want it, but I immerse myself in it every day. Yes, I try to make it as ugly and unpeeling as I can, but I still feel like a snake oil salesman when it’s all said of done.
And can I really do it justice if I don’t believe in it? Does that make everything I write a lie? Or am I writing to the ideal I wish existed?
Then again, as long as I love writing does it matter what I think about the act of love?