At the outset of a long writing project I make a big pile of notes on index cards. On them are written character names, descriptions, plot ideas, chunks of unreadable chicken scratch, etc. And as I go along, or if I get stuck in the process, I often consult this pile for a bit of inspiration.
If I’m honest, it’s not always that inspiring. Spread out, the notes resemble a rat’s nest; sometimes they leave me more confused than when I set eyes on them. But once in a while I find a keeper.
I found one the other day. It said: Be more romantic. That’s all it said. Not a question, not a suggestion, certainly not a story note. Just a nudge, written from me to myself — at a moment when I must have been feeling very unromantic. I couldn’t remember writing it, but I’m glad I found it because life could always use more romance. Without it our days become a dirge of duty and discontent. We muddle along. We do stuff. We solve problems. We count steps but we do not dance.
I don’t mean sappyness. There was a time in my life when I thought being romantic meant putting on some kind of passionate performance; a gesture dripping with the right amount of desperation. The tortured poet. A fling of spontaneity. Love notes and moonlit mariachi.
I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for moonlit mariachi. But these days romance means more than rapturous moments. It means the diligent pursuit of wonder. It means finding delight in dull things and thrills in unlikely places. It’s less about raptures; more about being rapt. Less about spontaneity, more about being steadfast. Less fling, more faith. It means being receptive, the way children are receptive and enthused by the world around them.
In the mornings my daughter sings Happy Birthday to herself in bed. Romance means that.
It takes effort now. It didn’t always. When you were younger, romance was like riding a bike downhill. The hill swept you and the world, full of wonders and splendors, came at you full tilt. With time, the hill climbs. You can still feel the wind in your hair but you must pump your legs and break a sweat. That’s also what makes it pleasurable.
Like curiosity, romance seeks a connection with something or someone out there. I like the word romance because it implies intimacy. It implies love for the thing it seeks. It discloses risk. To find what you seek will cost you. You may have to leave behind your trusty map, your set plans, your waterproof timeline, your sprawl of (mostly rubbish) notes, your prepared speech, things you thought you knew — and strike off somewhere else, foreign, where the only clue you follow is an irresistible scent, nothing more.
The stories I want to write, and the days I want to live are about following that scent.
Maybe we run in circles and fall down. Or maybe we arrive on a mellow moonlit night; a secret garden where honeysuckle spills over the hedges and the mariachi, with gold tassels on their jackets, have taken their place beneath the high window with the fluttering curtains and…
Goodness, am I a hypocrite? Who cares. You’re alive, kid, and that’s what counts. Be more romantic. These are the words I need whispered in my ear.
show & tell 