So, I write a post entitled "Suicide," and then go two weeks without posting anything else. Oops. A little weird?

And now for something completely different.

I love to write about love. The romantic kind. I'm a hopeless romantic, and this sometimes annoys my wife. (We defy gender stereotypes in that regard.) She does usually like the way I handle romantic elements in my writing, though.

Now, don't misunderstand what I mean when I say I'm a romantic. I'm not a flirt, player, Casanova, or anything else remotely like that. I think love should be like dutch oven cooking, not slapping a steak on an overly hot grill until the outside is seared and the inside is still raw. You've got to be patient with a dutch oven.

Nah, forget it; dutch ovens are boring. Flames are fun. Sizzling is exciting. But you still have to just let it happen, not force it or even expect it. When I write a love story, (and I've written, like, three of them,) it takes the entire story to get to the first kiss. Oh, except for my current WiP, which has a love story in reverse. Even then, it spans the book.

Love just always sneaks in there--along with suicide and food.


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