This week, I’ve felt a bit nostalgic. I’ve been longing for the ethereal sensations I enjoyed when I read those early romance novels back in the late 70s. It’s impossible to put into words the grip those stories had on me. Like a drug addict, I needed them as much as I needed to breathe. Whether written by Betty Neels or Barbara Cartland, something about those simple love stories held me captive. What kept me turning pages until the final denouement…the final little pitch in my stomach?
I’ve recently started to revisit some of those stories. The basic story is simple, boy meets girl, boy and girl sort of get together, boy never really had girl, boy loses girl just as he starts to realize he loves her, boy gets girl at the end. And of course they live happily ever after. There’re no extraneous explosions, curses, or dystopia to hide behind. There’s nothing overly complicated about it.
Please don’t misunderstand me…I’m not saying that any of the extra stuff is bad. I certainly toss it into my stories. And in more recent fiction, the reader expects it.
Yet the simplest stories are maybe the most difficult of all to write. They are so transparent that if the slightest hint of motivation is wrong, if the conflict doesn’t ring true, they fail to sate the appetite. When you lay out these simple stories, like a dandelion chain, each link leads to the next—an unpretentious flower arrangement that delights the eye and warms the heart.
As writers and artists on our journey toward mastery, we learn to study the Greats. It’s expected that we’ve read the classics. But sometimes I like to return to the beginning, to the innocence of those beloved stories that inspired me to my craft.
When you feel nostalgic, what do you return to?
