All respect to The Decembrists for the use of their title, but this is a topic much on my mind. Again.

Love.

Some find it, easily; the universe sends it their way on a well-marked path. Others find it serially. And others hold the hope in their hearts, but never seem to find it at all.

Without being too disclosing here—without telling tales of past woe—I am in the last category. The wanting. The not finding. The knowledge of much to give but, for now, no one to give it to.

I have not found that great love. So I wrote mine.

David Emory in The Spiritkeeper. The level, steady guy. The love that discovers itself in the quiet of ordinary days. A perfection in small moments. An investigation of what love can be.

In that decision to write a love story—albeit an unexpected one—was the expression of a desire, the overcoming of a thornier me, the creation of a reality that I believe in but cannot see. The story is not a girlie-girlie bodice-ripper…I am not capable of writing a book like that; not willing to. This is a story of the soul.

A dangerous thing, to create a world when the real example is nowhere in reach.

It is an understanding that raises a question. It raises several…

Can one write of a love like that from a place of comfort? Can one write of perfect love when actual love is comfortingly present? Or is longing the ground from which the beauty grows?

And the toughest questions of all: Does the expression of love-on-the-page push to the background the possibility of anything less? Can one write happy?

So far, the questions are theoretical. I have written a world, a love, that takes my breath. It will have to do until the real thing comes my way.

For the writer who creates in isolation and offers her emotions into silence, these are the hazards of love.

 

 

 

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