73: A Sense of Purpose
2/9/2014
In many ways writing your first novel is like falling in love for the first time. You’ve finally found something greater than yourself. Something more important than yourself that you can give 100% of yourself to without worrying about what you get in return. It becomes a thing that defines you as a person, bringing a sense of purpose and direction. But what I find most amusing is that, like falling in love, you have the overwhelming conviction that nobody has ever felt as deeply about it as you do. Nobody has ever given so much or has been so empowered and transformed by the experience as you have. Nobody has ever suffered so much, sacrificed so much, risked so much, or loved so much.
This delusion is no doubt useful. Because without this irrational sense of being special we probably wouldn’t even bother. Who could possibly be inspired by the realization that all their toil, and all their passion, will only amount in the end to one more drop in the ocean?
Present-Day Reflection
8/6/2026
I’m always in love. Either falling or basking in it. Ever since Alison, in the second grade, I’ve always had somebody to be in love with. Like a monkey swinging through the trees of life, I rarely let go of one branch until I have a firm grip on the next.
Romantic love, and finding my soul mate, has been my religion. My drug of choice. There’s always been a special someone who makes my stomach flutter when I see them. Someone to put all my hopes and dreams onto. And it’s always one-sided, of the unrequited variety. Even with those few I somehow managed to lure into a relationship, it’s always extremely unbalanced with me in the weaker position.
The faces keep changing, but they’re all the same. The love with a thousand names, but only one shape. Alison, Julie, Penny, Melonie, Toni, Andrea, Tracy, Mary, Gale, Jennifer, Edith, Kim... The list goes on and on. Indeed, there’s been so many I often forget some of their names. It’s been a long life, after all, and I’m getting old.
Georgette is but the latest in a long line of loves, though at my age she’ll probably be the last. It’s been a little over a year now – love at first sight, and beyond all utility or hope of going anywhere. She knows how I feel, or at least she’s been told and shown. Not sure if she’ll ever really know. Have any of them? And, as with so many before her, it’s become a game of cat and mouse where I’m merely something to toy with when there’s nothing better to do. Always kept at arms’ length and never shown any real interest beyond mild amusement.
It’s okay. At this point I wouldn’t know what to do with her if she reciprocated. I’d probably run away or do something to change how she felt. Never having had more than what I currently have, it’s what I’m used to. In truth, I don’t really need more than what I’ve got. All I need is something to love.
My writing gives me this, filling the gaps that people forever fail to fill.
