My completed novel is an adventure in a Middle Earth ish setting. I’ve also finished writing an early reader kids book. My two works in progress are a Christmas themed haunted story and a modern sci-fi about superpowers during a pandemic. If you were to scroll through the list of book ideas on my phone, you’ll see a recurring theme: fantasy, science fiction, and horror.
It makes sense. I was raised on a diet of CS Lewis and Star Wars. As I got older I explored the works of H.G. Wells and Michael Crichton. I spent my high school years secretly watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and X-Files because my parents would have said no if I asked permission. I’ve devoured almost everything written by Frank Peretti, Dean Koontz, and Steven King. A few books from King’s son Joe Hill have also passed through my reading list. The scary and fantastical tales are my wheelhouse.
My wife occasionally challenges me with a genre far outside my comfort zone. “You should write a romance novel.” It’s always a hard pass for me.
“I can’t.” I tell her.
Not an erotic story. She makes sure I know she doesn’t want me to write anything steamy. What she wants from me is a cozy romance like her favorite author Nicholas Sparks.
Still, I object. It’s not a lack of desire fueling my adamant nos. There’s been an idea for a romantic comedy rattling inside my cranium for nearly three decades which I would write if I was talented enough. But I’m not, so I don’t.
Reasons I’m unable to author love stories abound. I don’t read romance novels so I’m unfamiliar with the structure and tropes of the genre. I’m still learning how to write compelling female characters. And my previous attempts at lovey dovey prose sucked. I mean that with ten toes down. They were awful.
In a writing class I took a long time ago in a galaxy far away, the instructor told us there were four primary motivations for creating any form of art: anger, sadness, fear, and love. One could argue there is a fifth inspiration: drugs. But even intoxicated people experience terror, grief, ire, and adoration. “I love you man” says the drunkest dude at every tavern in America.
The teenaged version of me got his start with poetry. It’s all cheesy in hindsight but also decent considering my lack of maturity and experiential wisdom. When I was pissed off I could use words to explain how I felt. When I was afraid, my vocabulary was big enough to feel it. When I was heartbroken, my pen and paper were the only friends who could understand. But when I was in the throes of a crush, words failed me. I didn’t want to write about it, I wanted to experience it in its fullness - natural talents be damned.
My sorrow was internalized but elation was live and in color. Of course, even though I didn’t know it at the time, I was struggling with chronic depression. The religious community around me preached how negative emotions were sinful leaving me with no safe place to express myself. Instead I scribbled away in silence. Until I was happy, then I was free to display my emotions without a worry.
When I finally fell in love, I tried writing poetry to accompany my newfound affections. The end result was terrible. I made more than one attempt. Every repeated iteration was somehow worse than the previous so I eventually quit trying. Besides, it is easier to sing along with love songs than to compose one myself.
When it comes to crazy stupid love, the deeply committed bond with nearly divine intimacy, words are not my forte. I’m not much of a romantic. Just ask my wife. I’m more goofy and awkward. Besides, other people are better at describing these emotions of tenderness and passion.
For example: I’m reading “Watching Evil Dead: Unearthing the Radiant Artist Within” by Josh Malerman. The book is about the twin trajectories of his writing career and his relationship with his wife through the perspective of introducing his wife to one of his favorite movies which she had never seen.
courtesy of Del Rey/Penguin Random House
As Malerman, his wife, and some friends prepared to press play on the DVD and watch 1981’s The Evil Dead, he says the following.
“She’s smiling and it feels like we’re alone on a gently rocking boat. Not that the world is turning but we’re out to sea and we’ve been out to sea since we met. I wonder if that’s a hallmark of love - the two of you could be anywhere but when you look at each other it’s just you two alone on the adventure.”
Just like that, the author of “Bird Box” elloquently explained how I feel about my wife better than I could have imagined on my own. Annie is my partner in adventures both past and future. We have been together for what will be ten years soon and I still get that feeling when I look at her, that sense she is the only thing that matters in my world. I’m not mad at Malerman for beating me to the punch. His words are beautiful, painting a picture I could see but never describe. It’s like he psychically delved into my temporal lobe and recognized the mess of creative ability and shortcomings and said “Me too, I got your back.”
If you want me to tell a story about an ad executive in Seattle who sees ghosts, I can do that. A tale about a kid who reappears simultaneously in multiple cities after being missing for ten years? I’m on it. A dystopian world where death is impossible? Sure, that’s in my wheelhouse. But that romantic comedy about a single lady who caught a bouquet at a wedding and rushes to get married before her best friend’s wedding? Maybe someday, but not any time soon. Although, if that someday ever arrives, my wife will be satisfied.
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