FALLING IN LOVE AND A FEW OTHER THINGS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Nothing compares to the rush of falling in love. I mean that rapturous, passionate, nothing-exists-outside-this-love-you-feel kind of love. It is all consuming, filtering out all the flaws, and the niggling doubts that maybe something isn’t quite right. It makes the lover impervious to what others think about the love object. And that is why writers should never fall in love with their work. Because that means they want to be loved in return.

Writers need to see clearly, dispassionately. This doesn’t mean they shouldn’t fall in love with an idea, or they don’t have a creative rush.

Actors are notorious for falling in love with their own performances. The great English theatre director Peter Hall talked it about in his aptly named Peter Hall’s Diaries: “Saw Yahoo, Alec Guinness appears to have at the moment a bad attack of the ‘the lovelies.’ He seems to me to want, above all, to be loved by the audience. A pity when he is such a superb technician, and has such an amazing sense of character. What we received tonight was a gentle half-smiling ironist about as far away from the ferocious misanthropic Swift as a duck-pond is from the Pacific Ocean.”

I bet the audience loved Sir Alec’s performance. But when the creator wants to be loved he takes away the act of discovery from his audience or his readers.

I have just stopped reading a novel because the author not only loved his work but demanded I love it too. What happens when a writer has an attack of “the lovelies”? He over-writes by falling in love with his own array of words; it doesn’t matter if they stop the pacing, slow down the story. His words are beautiful, they are brilliant. There is no monitor just narcissism. And narcissism doesn’t much care for any kind of self-editing. If one perfect adjective will do, why not three or five? I forgot what the hell was on going as I fought my way through the swamp of non-ending sentences splashed with colons, dashes, parenthetical phrases, and semi-colons. Machete, please!

On Husbands: Speaking of love, I told my husband I needed a hug and he said, “just a minute.”

A half hour later he comes into my office and hugs me.

“Thank you.” I say. “What was that for?”

“You said you wanted a hug.”

“Oh,” I said, remembering the need but forgetting the moment that had
created it.

Timing is everything.

On Shoes: I love shoes. I’ve written about my leopard shoes in a previous column. They still sit on a shelf so I can see them and pet them. But as one gets a little older (a clearing of throat here) finding shoes that are appropriate, but still have style and don’t kill your knees because the heels are too high is difficult. I was determined to find the perfect ankle bootie. something saucy that I can actually walk in. I found them. (Speaking of the lovelies!) Beautiful deep black suede with a little dashing strap and buckle in the back. And the heel is only two and a quarter inches high. I can’t hurt myself in them, I thought. These are the kind of shoes my character Diana Poole would wear.

The time comes for me to go out in them. I sit down and pull on the right bootie. Perfect, gorgeous, sexy. I pull on the left one but it’s obstinate and won’t go over the arch of my foot. This didn’t happen in the store. I pull again. I put my foot down on the floor and try to jam my foot into the shoe. I’m now working up sweat and my husband announces, “We’re going to be late.”

I sit back down and lift my foot, the bootie still half-on, rest it on my right thigh, and tug some more. I stick my index finger between the heel of the bootie and my own heel attempting to use it as a shoehorn. Now I can’t get my finger out. It’s beginning to throb. I clench my jaw and jerk my hand. My finger, bright red, pops lose, an excruciating pain shots up the left side of my back, and the bootie slips easily on. I take two Advil and manage to walk out to my waiting husband.

“Great boots,” he says

“Booties,” I growl.

“Why are you crooked? Did you hurt your back?”

I nod.

“How’d you do that? And what happened to your finger? It’s all red.”

“We’re late.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“No.”