Okay, so I have part two of my Management 352 final to do, but I need a break. I’m bloody brain dead and it hurts. You never think it will, but it does. So, so much.
That is me right there. Well, minus the stack of books. If you can imagine lying on a computer with an iPad and a thick marketing book supporting one of two arms, that’s pretty much me. With strange stains that look like they could have been food at one point all over my jeans.
Anyone who tells you waitressing is clean and easy is a damn dirty liar.
So, I am at the part of my story where I start to wonder about a few many things. Mostly about the four letter word every woman (and man) wants to hear from their significant other (the same four letter word the the audience of Murdoch Mysteries has been waiting for Detective William Murdoch to tell Dr. Julia Ogden for Five. Bloody. Seasons.)
“Honey, I love you.”
Okay. Great. Why?
I am *so* not romantic. It’s pathetic. Someone hands me flowers and I get all weirded out, nervous, and blush-y like. I don’t know what to do with myself. Moreover, I don’t know why someone would ever consider saying that to me of all people. Don’t people have better things to do than hand me flowers and tell me some ridiculous sort of sentiment?
(I’m not trying to phish for compliments here, I’m being serious. I have this whole messed up self-esteem thing that has been that way since oh-as long as I can remember. Besides, this isn’t about me.)
Don’t get me wrong, I know what love IS. I know the definition. I know the science behind it and attraction. I’ve watched TLC and Discovery Science shows covering the topic. It’s all there in black and white. But, for the first time in my life, a book hasn’t made me understand.
I’ve never been in love. Not really at least. There is the teenager thing that happens no matter who you are. I’ve experienced lust, loathing, and the general okay-ness with living under the same roof as someone of the opposite gender. I do “love” people. With some of my friends it just comes with the package, but, I haven’t experienced “love” in the way it’s described in the myriad of books I’ve read. I refuse to look at the movies because that’s just silly, and I have no interest in experiencing romantic love.
Is there such a thing?
If there is, is it worth it?
Is there a difference between it and “real love”?
I love my family. But that’s different.
I find myself at a curious place in my story. Two characters are falling in love while a third is hiding from himself and the sexuality he condemns another for behind a deadly game of gin running, eugenics and drugs. A twist I never saw coming, and something I’m completely in love with (hah! made myself giggle a little).
Now, don’t get me wrong, the characters know why they’re falling in love. At this point they’re writing the story, I’m just in it for the ride. But, as the author, I feel I have the right to know why. If not for their benefit, but for mine. I have to describe all of this, you know. And, eventually, I have to understand the reason why they’re falling in love. Two characters can be in love all they want, but there is a reason behind it. One does not simply “fall in love” for reasons of falling in love.
That’s just silly.
And a little bit Wonderland.
So. To all of my friends, fellow writers, and those who are married or in a relationship. Can you help a girl out?
What makes someone fall in love?
What makes someone stay in love?
Is it really about looks as our society would have us believe?
What made you fall in love?