I suppose
you could call me a romance writer. I write love stories about couples finding
their soulmates and the journey involved to get to
togetherness. I didn’t really set out to write them. I just write stories about
things floating around in my head, set in an ideal world.
I had
nothing to base this quest on, really. I suppose because I had isolated myself
into celibacy, I used my novels and stories to craft what, for me, would be the
perfect romance. I suppose I should join the Romance Writers of
America and Toronto Romance Writers and all of these wonderful, supportive
organizations who would help me hone my craft, but that’s not really the point
of this blog entry.
I was
resigned to being single, without cats, because my mom’s allergic, using my
craft and blank pages to make the ideal partner, in looks, in lifestyle, but
especially in language. Writers can't help that last one. Those people we put
on our pages either speak in vernacular we’re familiar with, or use language
we hope to hear but wouldn’t dare dream of encountering. At least, that’s how
it goes in my written works.
Until just
before Valentine’s Day, that is.
I suppose
the timing was fitting, and was just simply the best or the worst timing,
depending on what version of Fate you want to lend your credence to.
I met
someone. A Someone. Perhaps The Someone. But a Someone nonetheless.
He’s
written a much more eloquent version of the events from his point of view on
his own blog. My version would parallel his, without all of my nervousness, nailbiting, handwringing, stomach cramping, agonizing, about every move and step I took towards him. In his version, I burst into his world like a “force of nature”.
In my version, I was seeking out my tribe in the middle of an online community
I’d joined for a lark and discovered too much negativity for me to handle. I
know, hard to believe if you’ve known me for years, but when people start
telling you you’re positive, you tend to believe it after a while, and you want
to shed certain deadweight from your emotional closet. The moroseness and
pessimism went first. I didn’t need those things anymore; I was resigned to be
celibate by choice, and I decided to be happy in resignment.
In an
introductory thread in this online community, his name and his simple statement
shone like a lighthouse beacon. Someone I could relate to, someone who would
understand my dark underworld need to avoid superficial whining negativity;
after all, it’s always been easy for me to drum up the real thing on my own. So I sent him a direct message. Which he answered. Discussion ensued, and
he was definitely part of my tribe of goth industrials. My hackles lowered, my shoulders relaxed, and
we just kept talking. He was very cool and affable. I was sussing him out to
see when I could ask about the goings on in the community, when we started
talking about things we like and don’t like, as you do with anyone, friend,
acquaintance, 20 second speed date...
Three days
in, I swooned. I cooed. Recognizing I don’t swoon and coo. I don't even write characters who swoon and coo. This could kill all of my cool points with this dude. At least he didn’t hear
me when I cooed in the depths of night when I read his message, of his favourite movies
listed by release year, ordered just chronologically so -- something I
would totally do, and, without knowing or thinking about what he’d done, he’d
shown me inside of himself. Because he was just being himself and that list was
the sweetest thing I’d been sent in a while from anyone, stranger,
acquaintance, or friend.
I could go
on about how nervous I was after that point. About how some of those ideals
that I had written about for years were coming to life before my eyes, through
the voice of a relative stranger. His candor, his honesty, his inability to
try, and when I say that, I mean he wasn’t being flirty or trying to get with
me at all. He was just being himself. And I was just being me, while hiding all of my nervousness and stomach flips behind a keyboard.
So far, we were following the plots of most of my written stories. People being themselves, coming together through
circumstances, and then realizing, always too quickly, that their lives were
meant to be intertwined.
Friends tell me, either with a
laugh or with a look of terror, that I have this wonderful (horrifying) habit
of going after what I want with direct force and determination, with little
regard for things that get in my way. When my secret
cooing and swooning became overt declarations, somehow I fell in love with the coolest man on the planet, and (I still don’t know how but) the best part is that he loves me back. And here is the strangest thing: his language, his
vernacular, when speaking with me and only me, in those quiet hours between
late night and early morning, or those loud hours between late morning and
early afternoon, is taken almost word for word from those romances I wrote, words that he has yet to read (because they're in draft form and nobody but nobody reads those drafts). It’s an exhilarating coincidence, but
it makes me wonder if I had always known I would find him or if I found him
because of his vernacular?
I couldn’t
have written this story better myself.
Only this
is the problem now. Which story am I meant to write? How do I get back to
writing fiction when I’m crafting the ideal story in real life? How am I
supposed to write it down when my beau is writing this out better than I
ever could? He’s idealizing me, and I like that point of view for the
protagonist better than the one I would have selected.
I have a
manuscript that needs editing and rewriting. Instead I’m writing blogs and
short poems and prose and anything else just to capture these initial
moments. I know what it’s like to lose sight of them after months or years of
togetherness, or when those moments leave you once and for all. For some
reason, this time, I don't want to go down that path of forgetfulness, when
the moments fade and settle into routine. I’ve seen couples, long term and
lifetime of love couples, who still have that spark when they talk to each
other about anything from art and literature to picking up de-icing salt for
the walkway. I might even have a chance at that now, and I need to grasp every
moment so I remember every single second of what this feels like.
But I’m not
getting much writing done. I’m so busy living this real story that I’ve all but
forgotten how to dive down into fiction. I’m sure I’ll remember eventually, but my fear
is that I won’t want to go back to fiction if I’m living a better story.
I’ve heard
other writers complain about this. They managed to get back to the page. I’m
sure I will as well.
In the
meantime, I’ll just hold onto these moments. Savour them. Cherish them. And
make them last forever…
