I've been spending a lot of time thinking about love, lately. I guess it comes with the territory when you're writing a love story.
Haven't come to any conclusions, though, so don't get too excited.
But what I was thinking is that, considering how many times I've done it (fallen in love, that is) it's really a wonder I'm not better at it.
When I was little, I fell in love every day. With many, many boys (even ones that didn't exist - I had a particularly violent crush on Atreyu from the Neverending Story). As I grew older, I became more picky. Which didn't mean I wasn't always in love. I was, it's just that I would stay in love with the same person for longer - hello, teenage angst (we all have that one, don't we, that one boy in high school who ignored us and for whom we pined in vain, and still hold a soft spot for in our hearts even though he grew up to become a loser with a silly mustache.)
Of course there was my first kiss (worthy of many years of soul-crushing love), my first boyfriend (still a secret love to this day), the first boy I was a proper grownup "couple" with, and-so-on-and-so-forth. With certain notable exceptions (think love child of Voldemort and Kathy Bates in Misery - we have all had one of those as well, sadly) I still love every single one of them. Which means that as we speak, I probably "love", in some form or another, close to 100 men/boys/random fictional characters/figments of my imagination. Like a giant love sandwich.
So again, I ask you, given all this loving that I do on a regular basis, and the broad array of subject specimens, how is it that I still don't know what I'm doing? I can hardly even write a good love story, much less have one.
I think there's only one solution.