I will never write a love story.
You know the type I mean. One of those gushy, sappy, cliché tales about how boy meets girl. Or the story about those two coworkers who are always at each others throats, and who, after 200 pages of heated, passionate fights and steamy scenes, finally get married and pop out babies and live happily ever after.
I refuse to write a teen love story. The kind where the main character is a shy, but beautiful girl (a little on the nerdy side, but man, what a smile) who moons after that sexy quarterback/base player/college guy/teaching assistant. I won’t write about how she finally catches her crush’s attention (quite by accident, but once he sees her he knows she’s something special) and he falls in love with her because she’s so “different” from the typical cheerleader/band groupie/sorority girl/honor society type girls he usually woos.
And I certainly won’t write one of those cheesy their-eyes-met-across-the-crowd love stories. I won’t waste my time writing how the guy glances up from the drink he’s nursing at the bar and sees her across the room. I won’t write about how his heart skips a beat when their eyes lock, or waste a paragraph describing how sexy she is(medium height, hazel eyes, body that could stop a truck, and beautiful, thick, wavy hair that he wanted to just wrap his fist in and yank- yeah, I’m going to stop there). But there’s just something about her, something special… it made him not want to look away. I won’t describe how he tosses back the rest of his drink to help him find courage, before he gets up to speak to her. And I certainly will not write a series of cute, humorous moments between the two of them as their romance buds and blossoms, or about how they too eventually do that whole getting-married-popping-out-babies-living-happily-ever-blah-blah-blah. I won’t.
I will never write a love story. (Probably)