My exasperated sense of reality has prompted me, no, begged me, to reach out to you - and smack you right in your lying, dream state, romantic fantasied face. And, I must tell you, in all honesty lately, that I despise you.
You, Mr. Sparks, have painted pictures of impossible meetings, of disillusioned "love" and ridiculous states of romantic fantasy. Your Sunday bubble gum movies, although heart warming, are stitched together in a flawed reality found only in the dreams of lonely girls. You, sir, are a sadist.
I don't find you fallible of a good story. I am, very simply, a realist. Life just doesn't work out like your Hallmark marked moments of magic that spark life's great romances. A real love is not held in brief meetings, secrets or dramatic rescues. Real love, Nicholas (can I call you Nicholas? Of course I can...), is held in those quiet moments of holding hands, of knowing exactly the color of "your person's" eyes - every single blue/green/brown fleck. It is found in laughter of stories, and in understanding of hurt. It is wanting to have one person fit with you for the end of time. It is loving someone after an argument, through the anger, and despite the tears. It's in that crease in someone's face when you gently lay your hand on it and feel the warmth on your palm. Your romance will never compare to the way he watches her across a room when she doesn't even know he is there, or the way she reached for his hand just to make sure he didn't leave.
People don't stumble into each other and find what they weren't looking for in the first place. It doesn't happen. Not in reality. And from every girl that has watched your stories unfold, holding hope of magical moments that create and instant unattainable love, I beg you to stop it. If you want to entertain my heart, show it truth and spare me the pain of your intangible "love".
You see, Mr. Sparks, I may be a realist, but I am one with great optimism in my soul. And if by chance I find that love, may it be filled with children, cupcakes, leaps of faith, mended hearts, and imperfection. Write me a story about a once broken girl and a once broken boy who simply found their way through the mud of it all. Write me a story that didn't start easy. Write it full of lessons, and hurt pride. Throw in some anger, some friendly villains, and don't forget the apologies. And, just for my own optimism, throw in someone who doesn't leave.
So, while those other girls swoon in their wait of the perfect romance, I will sit patiently, and wait for something real - my own Safe Haven. He won't be perfect, and neither will I, and that will be perfectly okay. And I guarantee, it just might turn out to be a best seller.
Auspiciously yours,
J
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