Something to read as I work on my next novel.
It’s sad when things end.
An empty box of Cheez-Its. The last episode of your favorite vampire-romance TV show. The conclusion of love month. The end of a relationship.
We mourn and cry and remember the good times we had. But no amount of tears will bring back those precious cheesy-salty-crackery moments you had together. You can’t relive the awestruck shock over your TV love’s heroic sacrifice. You can’t go back in time. Soon, you’ll have to move on.
My home church has decided to embrace February with X’s and O’s. They have, cringingly, declared it Love Month, a phrase they proclaim with sentiment in their hearts and a sigh in their voice.
When I first heard the term Love Month, my stomach lurched for a bucket, a feeling—I realized—quite similar to love: an uncontrollable bodily function, repulsive to the people around me. Sounds about right.
I hope you’re not eating as you read this, because we’re going to talk about love. Got your bucket handy?
I just finished throwing Jojo Moyes’ book, Me Before You, against a chipped brick wall.
The wall didn’t appreciate this childish outburst.
The book, however, shrugged and sighed and murmured, “fair enough.”
