I'm driven wild, longing for him

"Life is a series of collisions with the future; it is not the sum of what we have been, but what we yearn to be." ~Jose Ortega y Gasset (credit to Michael Yamin on his Legend & Wisdom Stories blog)

I'm writing a novel where two lovers meet briefly and are separated. They yearn for each other, striving to be together. The plot cycles on that theme, with emotional and physical desire building as the pair are briefly together, yet kept apart. Each time they interact, it's just enough to visualize their potential bliss beyond reach. Over hours, months, years, and decades they long for the other, imaging how wonderful life could be if together. Quests and perils of increasing magnitude block their path, yet they aren't deterred. After risking life and limb, in hopes of permanent union, the lovers must be satisfied with only a few moments of shared love. And they are. Even short meetings satiate, or more, leaving them breathless. All who come to know the characters, readers and authoress alike, root for the couple to remain together.


As I craft this theme, I consider why the cycle of meeting, separation, and longing is so compelling. Recently, I came across some quotes that helped supply my answer. Jose Gasset, from above, explained when our visions of personal futures collide with, or are shaped by, present time, the result is termed “life.” We begin with a mental vision, a prediction creating a goal, much like the longing of my lovers.


Similarly, while reading Jane Friedman's blog, “You are bad at making yourself happy,” I came upon the same idea. She quoted a review posted on Amazon by Malcolm Gladwell for a book entitled, Stumbling on Happiness. I list his quote again:

“What distinguishes us as human beings from other animals is our ability to predict the future–or rather, our interest in predicting the future. We spend a great deal of our waking life imagining what it would be like to be this way or that way, or to do this or that, or taste or buy or experience some state or feeling or thing. We do that for good reasons: it is what allows us to shape our life. And it is by trying to exert some control over our futures that we attempt to be happy. But by any objective measure, we are really bad at that predictive function. We’re terrible at knowing how we will feel a day or a month or year from now, and even worse at knowing what will and will not bring us that cherished happiness. Gilbert sets out to figure what that’s so: why we are so terrible at something that would seem to be so extraordinarily important?

In making his case, Gilbert walks us through a series of fascinating—and in some ways troubling—facts about the way our minds work. In particular, Gilbert is interested in delineating the shortcomings of imagination. We’re far too accepting of the conclusions of our imaginations. Our imaginations aren’t particularly imaginative. Our imaginations are really bad at telling us how we will think when the future finally comes. And our personal experiences aren’t nearly as good at correcting these errors as we might think.”

It seems we are captivated by our imaginations, and while convincing and believable, are largely unable to accurately predict the future. The thrill of the chase. It excites our senses, feeds our minds. Why wouldn't my separated lovers dream of bliss beyond their wildest dreams, if only they could be together. Aren't we all dreamers?

“ Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.” ~Erica Jong, Fear of Flying

What do you think?  Is the journey more exciting or more important than the end?

Colors of Love

I am orange today. A statement of mood through expression of a color, trusting known connotations. Lately this seems to be a trend. Perhaps, a result of character limitations on tweets or status updates. What kind of love do cerulean, fuchsia, or aubergine bring to mind? As a writer of romance and erotica, I ponder such amusements.

A cold and isolated relationship is white, barren of everything, sterile. Be warned, icicles from that lover may impale you at any instant. Only the most colorful personalities feel welcomed. Ivory love, demure like a fragile parchment, kisses softly over the hair, the brow, the nose, before brushing lips. Its distant cousin, charcoal, seeks a stormy union. While the lovers' dedication may be as solid as granite, their passion transcends tumultuous fog, rain, wind, and snow. Thunder sparks intense passion. Values darker, a blackened heart grieves for what will never be, yet clings to remnants of broken beauty. His mysterious elegance draws many, yet fulfills none, instead appreciating their oppression, delighting in macabre.


That thirst for blood and hunger for life, heightens passions. Lovers slake their own desires for claret. Ropes bind the skin, cutting a sanguine trail. Stilettos and stockings lie tossed aside while she reclines; he is already gone from her bed. Crimson lips on his starched shirt bring a memory of the conquest. At his own door, he interrupts his daughter and boyfriend in a goodbye kiss, both blushing. The pinkness of young love. Inside at the dinner table he looks upon his wife, trying to recall that same tenderness. She is too aged; he cannot. But, her smile pours orange warmth across his heart, a glimpse of the sunshine which fascinated him when he proposed. He twirls his band of gold, wondering . . . his desire to provide for her transformed into a vicious drive. Their love once yellow, hers shone like the sun, while his reached toward succeed. As she gave birth to their children, her harmony glowed verdant and fertile. However, he became green with greed, darkening his heart by degrees, until compelled to satiate his ravenousness with that carmine mouth.


Sadly, like him, few discover the most blissful colors. The azure of tropical waters soothes the soul. Nothing is more important than time spent on carefree caresses, part of an everlasting vacation for those who are so lucky. Such tranquility, together gazing up to stars twinkling against sapphire is appealing, but I prefer to blend it with a quantity of passion – purple, my choice for amour. Hearkening back to chivalry, honor, and valiance, when nobles dressed in violet, I swoon from the romance. Amethyst love potions intoxicate with spells from which I never wish to turn away. Tiptoeing through patches of lavender and heliotrope while gathering armfuls of lilacs, his love seduces me with heady fragrances. This is the color of my love.


Do you agree with my color associations?  I'd like to know your thoughts.

Illusions of Intimacy, Chapter One: Timeless Love

From my novel, in progress . . .

You are always near. Your presence known through whispers riding upon gentle breezes, which lift strands of my hair, or in gusts whipping past, ravaging my body, or in the shivers along my spine from the howl of a solitary wolf. You are there in the crash of lightning bolts, cutting the night sky, in the gleam of a pearl's lustre, or with the inspiration of a familiar scent.

Images of you linger on my mind for hours, months, centuries - timeless.


Our adventures have no beginning, no end. We share lust and love, anguish and joy, separation and unity . . . all are blissful. You know me better than any man, and for that singular reason I am your love.

You belong to no generation, no era, but you belong to me – always.