The moment a writer falls in love, she stops writing.
In the face of all preconceived ideas about love, ideal relationships, and happy endings, it is a beautiful paradox how nothing would seem to make sense for someone who spends every day trying to make people believe that love is the greatest power ever known to man the very moment she meets that one person she is meant to be with for the rest of time. At the back of every great novel, movie, or song is a writer trying to stitch logic and feeling together while intoxicating the audience with the most dangerous euphoria. For the audience, love does not make sense; it just does not because love is supposed to be crazy and illogical and painful and happy but the writer needs logic to make people fall in love.
When a writer writes about love, it does not necessarily mean she is in love; it may mean that she is in love with the very idea of making people fall in love hence allowing her to write from a different dimension; a dimension where no mortal has ever been.
She writes about her parents’ love story or her best friend’s or other people’s but when she writes about her own, she is not writing anymore; she is transforming words into dancing pixies of beauty and total bliss. It is not writing, it is a transformation of perfectly weaved sentences into deliciously concocted memories, vivid images of what has and what could have been. Images and no words, feelings without grammar.
When a writer writes about an experience, she is robbed of its sanctity; the beauty of ambiguity and the never ending quest of trying to figure everything out; of trying to make sense of why people who are in love act in a certain way, speak in a truncated manner and yet still sound beautiful and think in the most bizarrely, steadfast course.
When a writer falls in love, she becomes human. A writer, who eats words for breakfast and bathes in the symphony of verses and paragraphs, loses herself in the lovely chaos of kisses and late night baby talks. Every waking moment becomes an opportunity to be young over and over; to write not only for others but for the self.
But nobody knows heartbreak better than writers; they create them. So every time a writer falls in love, there is a certain awareness of where it could lead to. It could be eternity or pain, but she keeps on loving anyway because nobody is more capable of overcoming — or in this case overwriting — heartbreak than a writer.
When a writer falls in love, the act of falling usually is the hardest because the writer knows best how bad hitting the solid ground feels, especially when she doesn’t know whether somebody will be there to catch her or at least pick her back up.