"You Love Me Even Though I'm A Wreck, Right?"
So. A couple of hours before the convention. That’s usually when I stress out. All my social anxiety hits me in one ball of DON’T WANNA GO, and I curl up for a bit by the suitcase and pretend like I’m packing.
Gini comes in. She hugs me. I tremble.
“You love me even though I’m a total wreck, right?” I ask.
I hear her silence. Hear her considering all the ways I’m wrong. And then she finally says the right words:
“Yes,” she tells me. “Yes, I love you even though you’re a total wreck.”
And I hold her tight and thank her.
Other partners would tell me that I’m not a total wreck, that I go to conventions all the time and I do well, that I’ve managed to eke out some mild fame out of being a writer even though I’m a neurotic and a depressive and a cauldron of anxiety. But I didn’t ask, “Am I stronger than I think?”
I asked, “If I’m as bad as I think, will you still love me?”
And she would.
She would.
I’m gathering my things right now. I’m printing off the chapter I’ll read at the con. And by the time I get there, I’ll be okay.
But if it’s not okay – if I’m not okay – she’ll still love me.
She loves me if I’m a total wreck, and that gives me the strength to be more.
Love your writing.
BUT… too often, writers dream but never experience satisfaction. Too often they merely write erotica without subjecting themselves to the live experiences. Would this apply to you?
You must know and answer, if you would be so kind.
I’ve experienced most of the erotic stuff I write about.