I don’t write romance. Punk asked me to write a love scene once, and I did try, but it stunk. I can’t even fix it because every time I go back to read the thing, I cringe and groan and can’t make it to the end. I’m about as sexy as Lloyd Christmas hanging by the bar and putting out the vibe.
Maybe it’s not my fault. You know the saying, “write what you know.” I do NOT know romance, at least not the Harlequin variety. I don’t know how to write what sells.
But I do know love.
Yesterday was our anniversary. Thirteen up and down, twisting, turning years after meeting at a roller coaster park, with four births, three continents, two evil cats and one can’t-look corkscrew-to-the-heart crash littering the track behind us, we’re still riding together.
How do ride partners for life celebrate the survival and even thrival (I know, not a word) of a marriage sustained at maximum G-force?
With a hot date of sushi and indoor go kart racing. Raw fish and raw nerves, baby. That’s what I’m talking about. (He smashed me, btw. Lapped me three times.)
Romantic? Maybe not. But it was fun, and unpredictable, and exciting, and different, and everything I love about us.
Love is standing in line
laughing and sharing fried cheese on a stick.
Love is getting in the same cart together,
even though you’re scared.
Love is stealing a kiss in the tunnel
and holding hands on the big drop.
Love is going again,
even if the fried cheese isn’t sitting so well after that last spin.
Love is not knowing what’s around the next bend
but knowing it’ll be worth the ride.
That’s my kind of love story.
Write about what comes after the go-karting, you suggest. Nope. I will write anything for love, but I won’t write that.
Happy anniversary, Punk. Want to go again?