I’m a critically acclaimed author. I swear. I was about 12 when I published my first work. It was positively and warmly received by my best friend. And I did not even have to bribe her to read it. It involved Prince Charming and me being rescued. I know, I know, not terribly original. But even then, my head (or is it my heart?) was filled with romance. Thankfully, I never outgrew it. Even with ex-boyfriends who now make me go “What was I thinking?” coupled with a cringe and a not so subtle need to hurl, I never lost faith in romance. I couldn’t. It’s what makes life so interesting, don’t you think? The search for it. The hope for it. And even when you find Prince Charming turning into Prince Vermin, or never finding him at all, there’s great comfort in knowing that you tried. One could never fault someone for trying to find romance. We are not meant to be solitary creatures. Otherwise, we’d be extinct.
So in writing, or rather my ramblings, I try to create part of that romance. Not to escape. Never that. Because romance is life, and vice versa. Books merely condense the journey but its all the same journey. The difference of course is that my work always ends happily. I don’t think I know how to write anything else. And even if I could, I don’t think I can do that to my characters. I’ll be so sad if I left someone sad. And as the wise Phoebe Buffay once said “I’d hate to be the reason that I’m sad.” (Or something like that).