To Love a Story

The thrill of a new story idea sends a tingle down my spine. That first encounter heightens my senses and kicks my heart into an extra gear. Suddenly, I can think of nothing else as I bask in the glow of its loveliness. The touch of the keyboard feels electric. Its promise augurs something I have yet to know, but I throw all caution to the wind because it can be nothing but greatness.

Possessed by the idea, I begin in earnest, words flowing from my fingertips as lightning bolts from Zeus striking the ephemeral page. The courting of words, a beautiful siren’s song, coaxes my muse onto her balcony. The manic progress ebbs and flows like the tides shaping the sand into a work of art. My heart swells as I breathe life into characters, paint the canvas of settings, and speak the indelible words that will be remembered and quoted by generations. With desires announced and conflict put in motion, the flower blooms with a frenetic passion.

My infatuation bursts into the night like a firework that launches with great promise of visual and aural display. The tremor-inducing first few chapters rivet me leaving me tangled in the sheets of literary desire. My best ideas spent, shot into the vague darkness of the plot, I languish in solitary repose, my imagination besting reality. The hype and hope begin to flicker ever so slightly as the pretense of fantasy loses its grip on me.

The beauty and perfection I had once held in high esteem fade. The imperfections become more obvious and out-sized, like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. Suddenly, the story seems askew and inhospitable. We need time apart to determine how we really feel about each other, but one day leads to another, and then, the once-promising romance falls into the dustbin of memory. The pages languish unfinished. A melancholy falls over me, a feeling of missing someone or something that had once been the center of my universe.

Erstwhile bright alleyways fade to a misty gray leading to ever darker paths through the graveyard of potential, a sad relic of the fatal arc of a love story. Feet scuffing the ground beneath me, the petulant little boy inside me feels dejected and discouraged until a glimmer catches my eye. Up ahead in the misery sits something bright and glittering. My pace quickens until I am upon it and hold it in my hands in all its glory; my love flowers once again.

A familiar tingle trickles down my spine. I can think of nothing else.

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