This week, the dark, blustery chill of Fall has finally arrived in Los Angeles, and with it, right on schedule, the return, for me, of THE FIRE.
As a result, I had a rather interesting self-revelation recently. Over a huge, piping hot bowl of vegetable soup at a Jewish deli, it suddenly struck me that, as a writer, I have ZERO interest in writing about or exploring stories about romantic love. SO. GOTTDAMNED. BORING. Christ, ANY motherfucker can fall in love with another motherfucker because your chemicals and genitals are gone wild and all aflutter. I am NOT impressed. For me, it is a much more fascinating and riveting proposition to explore and chronicle relationships between two (or more) people who will NEVER fuck, have NO INTEREST in fucking, but yet remain inextricably bound one to the to the other by something much larger, much deeper, and more profoundly enduring than fickle, fleeting, romantic love.
I am dumb-lucky enough to have found My One True Love in this life, and perhaps that has settled the matter for me artistically. Or, it could just be that my Lady Bits and Attendant Chemicals were ganked from me the same day as The Japanese Tsunami in a life-changing/life-saving surgery that I now fondly refer to as THE PUNANI TSUNAMI. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that what I am NOW interested in writing about is not just My One True Love…but ALL The Great Loves of My Life.
And…so I shall.
NO FEAR, BABY.