The alternative, unless one is moved—and versatile enough—to write nonfiction or political commentary, is writing nothing. And a world in chaos needs love more than ever. When everything else is awful, escaping for a few hours into a place where love is the most important thing may be the only way some of us have of not succumbing to the madness.
This isn’t the most novel thought, I suppose, and I’m sure plenty of writers have said it more eloquently. But as I tried to think of a topic for this post, I realized I was feeling guilty about writing it. Just as I’m feeling guilty about writing my current work in progress. So much awfulness has happened in the past few days that it feels audacious to write about romance. But it’s also my job—the writer’s job—to create stories that go out into the world and try to change the world, if just a tiny bit in a tiny corner of it. And maybe romance won’t change the world in any spectacular way—it won’t help someone out of poverty, end racism, or save lives, but if makes just one person feel a little less alone and hopeless in the midst of all this madness—if it gives someone pleasure—then I guess I’ve done my job.
So I’m heading back to work in my little imaginary world of jaguar spirits, dark entities, and people who can talk to the dead—yeah, I know, that doesn’t sound very romantic, but the times do tend to influence the words, don’t they? And I promise, there’s sexual tension and desire and love in there, too. But there won’t be if I don’t get my butt in gear and get it done.
