New to serendipitousdrabbling? Click here to view from the beginning.
38: Trying to remember what it was like to fall in love and be in love with someone (Part 2 of 2)
My brain is once again alive with the tunes of the dead of night and so it will be impossible for me to sleep until I finish using up the creative juice in the bag for this post.
When I was fifteen, I set up a ghostwriting service on a site, where I ghost-wrote stories for clients and was paid for it. I dug up my past stories and took a look. Many of my clients had me write romantic plots or stories for them, which I happily did. At the time, it was as if I understood the magic formula to love. I wrote the stories. The clients were happy with the work. I was paid.
I used to look back on the stories a lot after I took down my service permanently. The stories I’d written would be with me forever. When I looked back on them, I remembered the tears I’d shed writing the important scenes and the incessant and urgent thumping of my heart when I was carefully choosing the right words to capture the intensity of a passionate embrace, kiss or look. I recently dug them up again and read through them. It had been a while since I’d dug them up, since I had been busy with life after the ghostwriting service.
It occurred to me that I could no longer feel the way I used to when I had chosen the perfect words to describe all those scenes. My heart did not race. There were no tears building up to the scenes, let alone shed. I could not relate to the characters’ pain and heartache. I could not feel anything at all.
At first, I was somewhat passively terrified, because I used to explore all my emotions thoroughly and experience all my emotions with fiery enthusiasm (but now only a few emotions come and go, and they’re not all that strong). I used to write from the heart when it came to romance. Looking at my most recent attempt at a novel, I am still writing from the heart. It’s just a lot more cynical and realistic, thanks to my new world views, I suppose.
I guess a lot has changed between being fifteen and sixteen.
All I can think of is that I used to enjoy being wildly in love with the people in my life, and now I only find solace in words I use to describe unworldly and unrealistic experiences a banal and boring person like me would never experience. I find it comforting to write about less intense things like short scenes of realistic life-like … wait it doesn’t make sense. I don’t know.
There was a time when I did not write every day like this, and that was the time I was able to go out and fall in love.
P.S. I would not give up writing every day just to fall in love with someone again. Another difference between the ages of fifteen and sixteen.
~Time for bed~
And dreams which slip from my grasp like delicate thread when I try to write about them in my dream journal.