Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Where is love?

It's not that I don't know that I'm damaged. I think all writers have to be damaged in one way or another. When I teach my inner city kids, I frequently tell them that their harrowing lives make them more interesting than your average suburban kid. I could be wrong about that.... but it always makes my students feel a little more comfortable with the baggage they carry.

And my characters, where would they be without their broken parts? The comedy of lives gone mad. The loss that emanates out of them, making the reader (hopefully!) want to sink deeper into the story to find their own lost pieces.

The question is about every day life. How does someone hold on to another person who can't hold it all together for themselves?

Each day, I try to glue back the pieces of me that broke off the day before. Lately they don't stick as well as they used to, and the soft, unknown parts underneath show through.

What will happen if the glue stops working altogether?

Once, he told me I pushed everyone away. My father, my previous boyfriends, everyone.

I was angry then. But maybe he's right.

And the thing is.... I don't even know if I WANT to glue the pieces back. Maybe I want them to fall to the ground so I can see, once and for all, the rawness underneath.

She might be ugly. She might be mad. She might be brilliant. She might be unlovable.

Where is love? Is it in the pieces, the glue, or the underneath? I'm too scared to find out.




  1. Brilliant questions, beautifully stated.
    I have no answers.
    Many years ago I wrote some poem about a broken china cup glued back together being like a heart. You'd always see the fissures and know the fragility of the fix.

    1. Tricia, I'd love to read that poem.

  2. Love is inside your heart. It is also the strenght to love yourself enough to keep putting your own heart back together.

  3. Enjoyed the read, and the message. I wonder if all don’t feel they are or have experienced things that make them feel broken, and probably lucky too in some ways. It’s all traumatic and wonderful in a life. All that happens adds or takes away from who we are. It’s all a matter of degree. We are all lost, trying to find or be found. The stories written and more so those that are read and remembered, belong to the more or less fortunate of us.