Late last year, I was coerced seduced invited to become a volunteer Board member for my local Romance Writers of America chapter. It was a pretty doggone good choice; SFA-RWA is a staggeringly fantastic group of strong women writers that I’m thrilled to be a part of. Though I’m a genre-jumper at heart (and will be until I really find my voice), I’ve found myself writing more and more romance, just to be a bit more like these awesome authors.
But I have a secret. One that came out on a date last night. I’m not totally sure I’ve ever been in love. And dude, I’m 32. That’s kinda embarrassing.
Oh, there’s been puppy love, and infatuation, and sincere like, but nothing that felt true enough or lasted long enough for me to say, “THAT. That’s love, ennit.” I’m not wholly convinced that anything different exists; what if we’re all talking about the same thing, except some folks talk it up more? Kinda like my old stoned-in-high-school conversations about color. If I say that’s blue, and you say that’s blue, how do we know we’re talking about the same blue? Your blue might be my yellow. Everything’s relative, and just because we share a language doesn’t mean I have access to the truth of your experience.
Maybe it does exist, and maybe some day it will smack me over the head with a frying pan. I’m keeping an open mind. But I refuse to fall in love just for the sake of being in love. If it ever does happen, it will be because I’ve actually found someone I actually want to give up some of my precious free time for.
Also, hey, congrats NY! I may not convinced true love exists for me, but I’ll be damned if I’ll keep others from committing to it.
America, The Strange 
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