I think part of the reason I write is because, like a large number of people, I enjoy falling in love.
And writing is very much so like falling in love. At least it should be. If you can’t at least tolerate a job, you really shouldn’t be there, barring extenuating circumstances like extreme debt.
I know. I’ve been there. My coworkers made it tolerable, but the environment itself was a slow corrosive to the spirit. To me at least.
I’m in a position now where the job is actually harder (Stay at Home Mom. And screw you, it is a job that is harder than a government office gig and it can totally suck your soul away more efficiently than an IRS audit if you let it), and there isn’t much energy at the end of the day, but just like the one for which I actually got paid, I have time to write. Sometimes. It depends on the day.
Back to love letters.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m not cheating on my marriage with my stories. Let’s face it, every marriage hits a rough patch. For whatever reason you stop talking. I mean actually talking, not just saying things to fill up the empty space.
Part of this communication issue is time. The husband has a traveling gig and while we can call each other, he also spends a lot of time after office hours on business related conference calls and stupid shit like that. And then, of course, we’re trying to give the kids a “normal life.” So there’s Sara’s dance class. And both of them have swim class. And there’s homework. And sometimes the kids want to go out and play with other kids, which is fine, until I here screaming and have to run out and discover what, EXACTLY, is going on from my hysterical son who is losing his mind over occurrence X.
So by the time the time-zones line up, the meetings are done, the homework complete and everyone ate their vegies, we’re both too tired to say something with meaning.
Lots of dead air on those calls.
Is it cheating if you write and imagine yourself in a character’s arms? Is it cheating if writing a scene gets you hotter than the rare days that your spouse is home (let’s face it, seeing your spouse vegetating in front of the TV isn’t sexy, and you KNOW trying to seduce them won’t work because they have a migraine/too tired/not interested/crying child/insert another excuse here)?
Am I writing love letters to myself or stories for the world to read?
Does it matter?