Is That A Squirrel?

My novels are often classified under the category of: romance. I don’t particularly care for that classification. I view the love shared within the pages to be more than mere romance. None the less, one would easily fall under the misguided impression that I’m skilled when it comes to all things romance and relationship related - I’m not.

In fact, its recently come to my attention that I’m near clueless; in as far as personal romance goes. Oddly enough, I feel this detachment, or objectivity, if you will, lends to writing characters that think on their own, and possess feelings all of their own; as, I never invoke my own feelings, beliefs or preferences upon them. The characters in my novels stand on their own; separate from me. 

This is all fine and well. Professionally, as a writer, this isn’t just good, its great. Personally, well - that’s another story. When affection is turned in my direction, I’m a bit like someone who's walking along a dark path. I stumble often. I’m unsure of where I am. And more so, I'm unsure of where I’m going. But, most of all, I question everything. What sounds like a harmless squirrel, rustling in the leaves, may indeed be a hungry bear.


Like most who find themselves cutting through a dark forest; I don't stick around long. Instead, I keep my eyes and feet pointed toward my destination. That's not the best way to experience life.

Nothing is less conducive to romance and the expression of affection than distrust. 

I’m very happy as a literary writer; within my mind live both the well motivated and the ill motivated. The detestable and the crusader of truth. The good guy and the bad guy. They live and breathe within me. And at any moment, I can speak (write), on their behalf. Its almost as if I have a crowd of onlookers watching the events play out in my life, and often they give their opinion. As crazy as it may sound, I listen. I am never set along one solid line of thinking, this aspect of my mind has saved me more times than I care to mention, as it allows me to adjust when needed, and stand firmly when required.

On the flip side, I have to believe this may indeed be why the writers of yesteryear often ended up dying alone of alcoholism. As much as I enjoy delving into the intellectual, creative waters, I can’t say I want to drown in them. Furthermore, I don’t want to die alone, surrounded by my many dogs and cats, with a half bottle of absinthe next to my bed. 

I take nothing on face value. This is wise, yet inhibiting. It seems I have a little bit of personal tweaking to do. My guarded walls are built so high, I can no longer see over them; they are built so thick and impervious, I can no longer see through them. I don’t intend on taking them down. But I do feel I need to carve out an open window or two, so that I may one day, see the sunset again.

Sane