One of those times is when they assume I can’t appreciate things that are tied to passion and drama and, to quote Margo Channing, FULL OF FIRE AND MUSIC!!!
I actually love things like this. I love plays by Tennessee Williams very much. I just don’t like when things turn into sugar and stars and weepy sentimentality. To me, these emotions are just not genuine, even though people claim they are. They feel more like serious mental illnesses. I don’t like when things are treated more like a Pablo Neruda poem. They gross me out. They feel cheap and tacky like advertisements. Emotions can make sense and I think sometimes people forget that. It’s not all just pretty chaos and coincidence. People are allowed to be stupid, I just don’t want me, the reader, to be treated like an adolescent all the time.
Is it possible to be a romantic realist? Or maybe just someone who recognizes and appreciates the ugliness of reality and likes to be ejected every so often. Stories come in syringes and they belong in my veins.