Whenever I tell my love story people always tell me it would be a good movie material. I just smile and shrug. My story is not some kind of a romantic comedy meant to entertain people. It is a true-to-life experience of the most classic of all agonies. I actually share my story for selfish reasons. I wanted to relieve myself of the sad parts, which comprise about 65 percent of the plot, comforting myself that it is all over and there is no point of grieving. Thus it is not really a comedy but a tragedy. A series of broken hearts, broken affairs, broken leg (accident caused by running after a boyfriend), broken promises, broken windows of a Mustang Firebird, broken hymen, and...well, everything in my twenty something single life seemed to have been broken. When i turned thirty, I thought i was the most tragic of all single woman in my town. So I kept re-telling my story, even to friends who amazingly still find it so interesting. Perhaps it is because some of them are in the story, or perhaps the show of amusement in their face is for the purpose of comforting me. I knew it was a tad bit pathetic, but i did it with class, well most of the time i guess - masking my sadness. I was sad because my story was all about the "six times i got engaged," and i was telling it while still unattached, recently disengaged (as if he was some sort of a rifle) from my latest and apparently last "ex-soon-to-be-husband."
In those times i managed to keep a Plan B: Book to replace a Boy-man. Other than dreams of having a happy family and world peace, i was also conceiving a book idea during that period. And i was mid-way into the labor of having it published. All the signs were there during writing - mood swings, cravings (for the presence of certain exes), nausea (travelling through time) and insomnia. I was also vomitting, considering the fact that my subject was about the life of a 30-something getting over one great love and searching for meaning and purpose in a sub-corporate world, one memo/fling/party after another. Only now did i realize that wasn't any form of literature after all. I would call it a flip-lit instead of a chick lit. Thank goodness it was almost published. A succesful abortion when the book was already in full-term-complete-with-cover design-intro-bibliography-period (imagine that) was all i needed in order to achieve my first dream: a happy family. I had to give up that book because of a sudden twist in my life. I got married. Finally. I did it.