I have never really thought too much about the fact that the genre I ended up most called to in the end when it came to writing novels was romance.
Questioning it always seemed like a sure-fire to get the urge to create stories to disappear so I left it alone.
Anyway, this week I listed out the number of full length books I have on the go and it came in at 7. The 7th one being there surprised me but it felt right so I am going to accept it for what it is and hope that it will come to me at some point.
So I think it’s safe to say that the urge to create won’t disappear any time soon (or at least I hope) and with that, I think I might be able to question why romance was the thing that just made sense to me.
I am a cynic. I am cynical about romantic love for reasons that I am well aware of. And probably some that I have yet to uncover. I do not direct any of my energy to finding romantic love purely because deep down I am hella cynical about it.
But writing romance forces me to stop being so cynical about it. It forces me to write big feelings and quiet moments. It encourages me to open myself up to magic in the silence and comfort in the knowledge that there is someone that is there for you. It’s a near constant reminder that no one is unworthy of love and the reasons for believing that are bullshit. It comes with a predestined ending, it has to be happy. Love has to prevail. Even if there is a total breakdown in communication at the last moment, someone sucks it up and grovels and they ride off into the sunset together.
My creative life has taken me to a place where I have to believe or I wouldn’t show up to the page and write. And writing is what I am good at (I like to think so anyway) so believing is the easiest thing in the world because it means I get to create and park my cynicism at the door.
And that can’t be a bad thing.