On the rollercoaster ride of everyday life, I sublimate passion in favor of calm reason. I don’t scream or cry or tear out my hair or snatch a handgun from my purse. My life is not novel-worthy.
So when was my last passionate moment? (Oh, stop. I’m not telling about THAT!) I’m talking about an uncontrolled show of emotion. A don’t-get-in-my-way kind of passion.
I have to reach way, way back for this. And I find myself thinking about the way I read as a child. And what did reading deliver to excite this kind of passion? Escape!
A few years ago (I stopped counting how many) I started setting aside serious chunks of time to learn to write something that matters. Skeptics may say that romantic comedy doesn’t matter.
But look at it this way. Nothing is more important to a grim world than allowing people a chance to escape, to dream big dreams, to reach beyond the communities they’re living in to catch a glimpse of a bigger world where people take risks to triumph over small or great evils. In practicing and visualizing heroic action in fiction, they begin to grow, to understand themselves, to try harder, to love better, to live honestly, to become heroic in real life.
Fiction ennobles character. So that’s my passion. I want to give the world hope, couched in story.