20-something writer/coach/teacher/runner. Consummate lurker. Lover of YA and hypnotically crisp prose.
I worry sometimes that my love life hasn’t been like a YA novel. No electric touches and gasps and moans from the first kiss. Tingles and shock waves and tsunami sirens from eye contact. No cataclysmic union calling for a storm warning (unless you count the break up).
It’s been more like hoodies and flip-flops. The easing into cool water under the moonlight, taking uncertain steps over the rocks but still moving forward. They shift under my feet. Does that count, or do I have it all wrong? Did I miss the lightning, or did it miss me?
That’s one reason why The Hunger Games resonated with me. When Katniss finally falls in love (no spoilers), there’s no explosion. It’s a quiet kindling that grows.