It’s a piece of me that creates the whole. It is this exact displacement in normalcy that makes me so … well, me. Although I have realized this half a lifetime too late, it did not incapacitate me to live just as astute like everybody else. Like every human, this perhaps is my defining flaw that will set me to my days (some men have the Napoleon complex, some have loveless marriage, some hate their parents, some are sexually challenged and so forth).
So right now, I’m trudging the bookstores for a good romance novel. The kind that is appropriately driven. I’ve put off At Worlds End by Ken Follett for this jam, even though I was already holding it tight in my hands and drooling profusely for me to start it. I, unfortunately, went home empty handed. I decided to research further so I don’t waste my money to pointless, chauvinistic, corn dog, empty romance novels. I wanted to be responsible and comfortable taking in this genre so I walk away with appreciation and not regret.
I am trying to write something of a novelette which I am very much aware, will become a predicament given that I have had failed relationships and very little point of comparison for success. But I want to write it nonetheless. The story is still being put together in my head and whilst I’m at it, I’d like to research and read more to strengthen the different ranges of emotions I’d like for my characters.
My pick for romance novel emersion is Nicholas Sparks, The Last Song. I’ve marked my calendar for its release and I might request for an extra day off so I can pace it in my own time. I also have a few in mind and perhaps if I have more time, I can start on it as soon as I finish the first one.
I can not claim to know a lot about Sparks works, save for a few that I’ve seen on film. These fares are for musings and hankerings for my unintended genre. And I hope I walk away fulfilled.