My mom was always a better person when someone was digging her out. I still remember coming home to her closed bedroom door, for her only to appear moments later with glowing skin and a better attitude. Teenage me began to take notes on the pathology of people in relationships (including physical and otherwise). My interest was sparked when I observed the decrease in ass whippings I received from my mom and the boost in the overall households optimism when romantic partners were around. It became salient early on that affection and amore is the blood work of a human.
I’m obsessed with romance.
I remember a few years ago entertaining the company of a man who had two things going for him that I liked; extremely sexy and lighthearted. Everything else about him, for me, was a wash. Conversationational scope was limited. He garnered no particular skill or passion. Wasn’t very mature and didn’t have an overly noble or strong character. He was fine, kind, and laughed often. I was in a drought- wanting to date, but my phone was dry, and then he came along. Late night creeps with him included having my stomach ripped open as a new home for butterflies, and my soul being pushed out and suspended in air until my mind could catch up with my body’s pleasure. He was my “boy toy”, yet he was so much more important than that word will admit.
He kept my private parts lubricated; my private thoughts, my private ambitions. He was no Romeo, just a brotha from around the way. Pumping me with energy that would get me through the cheapness of most days.
We made future plans that we were aware we’d never tend to. Pulling nipples and laughing into sun rises with full hearts and dopey genitalia, it was only those time blimps that mattered. These were the softer moments of a hard period of life for me.
There is something special about someone giving a fuck enough about you to take the time to indulge in your bull shit. To lay next to you after the good time and get comfortable enough to fall asleep with their wallets or purses on the night stand. To have agreed that the time was so well spent that they’ll eagerly call back the next day to do it over and over again. Romance, of various sorts, means getting caught in a spell that adds a new layer of joy and substance to the everyday routine.
Welcome to my romance blog.
I write literary fiction, but I also write love stories. To most folks being a “romance” writer seems like an act devoid of purpose. I’d argue that romance is just as important as global warming and topics of Trumps antics. The intimacy we receive, in size and in quality, effects our capacity for compassion. I believe our choices, perspective, and who we are is largely influenced by our intimate experiences.
When I tell folks that I write about love, I can sense the disregard, it becomes obvious to me that I look like the stereotypical woman who is a hopeless romantic, vapid, and annoying. I say that to write about love is to create a romantic time warp that can be at times exhausting for the reader, but if done justice, can remind you of what it means to love someone outside yourself.