I have an odd definition of romantic that does not involve bouquets of roses, ornate proposals, or diamond rings. What is romantic, to me, needs to be rooted to what’s meaningful to the couple in question.

For example, if your partner likes sunflowers, giving sunflowers will be much more romantic than giving roses. A public proposal is anti-romantic, serving only to satisfy the proposer’s ego, but a private proposal where you two first met has promise. Saving a ribbon, or a playbill or other memento, is a romantic gesture saying “I will remember you.”

Context, the context of the couple, is vitally relevant. Romance is a shorthand for a set of breathless feelings that the two will hopefully remember years later with the reminder of a moment. Generic content creates bland shared language.

Daily writing prompt

Write about your first crush.

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My first crush was when I was five years old. His name was Randy; he lived out back of us in a grey tar-shingled house by the tracks. He was in my kindergarten class; I think I got a crush on him because of his collar-length hair and his smudgy face. I was a tomboy at this stage in my life despite my clumsiness; he suited just fine.

My mother dealt with this with stoic despair for the entire month of the crush. I don’t like to think of my family as classist, but I think there was an element of classism there. Mom went to visit his mom at one point; I got the impression from her afterward that This Was Not Going to Happen Again. I myself didn’t see the problem with Randy. Our house wasn’t nice either, although it was a lot bigger.

My mother needn’t have worried. My crush dwindled because Randy had figured out I was a girl and quit talking to me. For my part, I quit getting crushes on boys until fifth grade, from which point I made myself quite miserable with them until I was well, well past adolescence. And then one morning, I quit having crushes. I think I’m happy about that now.

When I was younger, I was passionate about a lot of things, so many that I was an exhausting person to be around. So said my mother, anyhow. I have mellowed as I’ve gotten older, and I suspect some of that is the medication I’m taking to keep my moods in check.

I don’t miss being passionate about everything. It’s nice that not everything has the same weight; it’s nice waking up in the morning and not being at 110% for every little thing.

But I’m still passionate about things. Writing, for example. I’m passionate about the process of writing and the results (most of the time; I’m not passionate about the current WIP.)

I’m passionate about getting things done. I like end results and getting there. This mostly applies to work-related projects. I wish I could get passionate about housework. (Does anyone get passionate about housework?)

I’m passionate about diversity. Not just that diversity is fun to be around, but that it’s necessary for a healthy world.

I’m passionate about well-being. Not necessarily happiness in that hedonic sense, but contentment with purpose. Balance and mindfulness.

I like where my life has settled. I don’t need to be passionate about everything, just the things I’m passionate about. 🙂

I will preface this entry with the caveat: My childhood was a long time ago. A long, long time ago. I will be talking about a book that probably nobody has heard about.

My favorite book from childhood was The Ghost of Opalina by Peggy Bacon. It was about a ghost cat who told stories about the previous residents of an old house. It was, in a word, absorbing. And to a child who read cereal labels, Readers’ Digest, and anything else I could get my eyes on, it was the revelation of a new world.

Textbooks for English class in my childhood were generally excerpts of stories, and it was my great frustration that they didn’t go anywhere. I remember (I think fifth grade) reading an excerpt of The Hobbit where Bilbo chats with Gollum in the murky cave. It has a beginning, middle and end, but it still felt unfinished. Bilbo has the ring. It’s a cool magic ring. what did he do with it?

The Ghost of Opalina is the first book I read that I can remember being a real book, with a beginning, middle, and end. Admittedly, it was somewhat episodic, with stories within the story, but it wrapped up to a satisfying end. And with a ghost!

From that point on, I was addicted to fantasy. My next formative reading experience was The Dark is Rising sequence by Susan Cooper, which was many years later. Before that, I read many books, and also cereal packages, Readers’ Digest condensed books, and anything I could get my hands on.

I read The Ghost of Opalina again recently, and I could see exactly why it enchanted me. It had aged well, and I could see why kids and librarians loved it. I once named a cat Opalina, and she could not have been more unlike the capricious, elegant wisp of a ghost cat. I was ten when I named her; my memory of the book has lasted many years beyond my kitty’s lifespan. Here’s to ghost cats and the power of memory.

Daily writing prompt

What’s the one luxury you can’t live without?

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Coffee.

That’s it.

Coffee.

Daily writing prompt

What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

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In my writing, in my teaching, and in my everyday life, I espouse the message that diversity in people enriches life.

People have always considered me “different”. Some of this may be because of my lifetime of bipolar disorder, but much of it isn’t. I am not autistic, so it isn’t that. Maybe I’m just “weird”, being creative, not interested in fashion, awkward, a little loud, and as much at home in my round body as my clumsiness will let me be. I dance in the grocery store when nobody is listening, I find humor in absurdity, and I have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of edible weeds. Oh, and I write, and writers are weird enough on their own.

I believe the world needs diversity. People need to have different philosophies, different bodies, different colors, different customs, different viewpoints, different orientations, different likes, different loves. If they don’t hurt others, their differences are vital for our human ecosystem. Evolution counts on difference; so does personal growth. We grow by coming into contact with people’s differences, if we’re willing to grow at all.

It’s hard to be different, because people fear differences. I think they most fear being found “wrong” or “inadequate” themselves — “If this other person is okay, does this detract from me?” That’s not how difference works. You be you, and I’ll be me, and the world will be richer.

I think there’s a third choice not mentioned here. I am neither a leader nor a follower, but a — what would you call it in one word — a loner?

That’s not the right word, evoking as it does gunmen in warehouses. What I mean to say is that I go in my own direction, work independently whenever possible. I tend to be an impatient person, and want to get right to business. I used to be in a department where the first 15 minutes of any meeting was spent with conversations that went like:

“I saw (name of former student) the other day. Remember her?” “Wasn’t she related to (this other person)?” “She married that farmer out in (name of town) last year.” That drove me up a wall, especially as a new person who didn’t know who (name of former student) was. But most of all, it bothered me because it was not on the agenda.

I have been the leader (of a committee in my department) and a follower (most other times I’ve been in groups). As a leader, I tend to feel impotent because I can’t get the group to make a decision. And as a follower, I get impatient. I find myself pretty predictable, on the other hand, and I can brainstorm and chug along to solve problems.

So I’m an independent, happiest solving problems and making plans by myself. How does this work out in marriage? My husband and I have an egalitarian marriage, so we’re neither leaders or followers, and that’s the way I like it.