My newest short story, and theatre piece is a Romance, a love story which celebrates love. This is a bit of a departure for me. I’m feeling rather sheepish about it as I’ve always written about misfits and misanthropes, lame ducks and lushes, the crazed and the confused – set in bizarre situations, where there is rarely a happy ending, but everyone has a great time before they all die in the end. And no one every falls in love outside some sort of sexually confused stalking type thing…
But since August, I’ve written two love stories with, well, I’m not going to say ‘happy’ but certainly satisfying endings. My new stories are not, I hope, clichés and they deal with meaty issues (infertility, instinct etc…) So, I haven’t begun to wear pink chiffon or whatever. Still, they are love stories. So, what is happening to me?
I’m thinking it’s a sign of maturity at a writer. I avoided romance before as I felt the darker side was the deeper, the more intellectual and philosophical.
However, I’ve found that recently my writing has become more comfortable portraying real people in everyday events, which includes falling in love. And I’m enjoying exploring this soft, sensitive territory and I’m hoping I’m doing it justice. And I believe this is a sign of me progressing as a writer.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go feed caviar to my poodle who’s just pee-d on my pink satin cushion.