“Why do you write like a kid?” Maybe because I am one? When I write of love, in my book it is always as innocent as my words portray it. I express love as that old-school admiration: silent glances from afar, love postcards, and picnics on hilltops. It’s running together in sunflower fields and carving our initials on ancient oak trees.
I write what I know I will never experience; daydreams aside, by the time I fall in love, I’ll be too old for my childish wishes. I write like a kid because I don’t want to objectify my muse; I don’t want to describe his physique. In my script, he’s not tall and handsome. His face is pudgy, he wears the same clothes he wore in his 20s, and he doesn’t know how Twitter polls work.
I write like a kid because I’m tired of romance novels being too physical for my liking. I write like a pre-teen because I want you to view this life from my rainbow-tinted glasses where chivalry is not dead and love blooms in all the colors of the spectrum.
I write like a child because my entire life is a G-rated, young adult fiction, where everything is gradual, and you have to read at least a hundred pages before the characters muster the courage to kiss. Because in my world, blushes are eternal and innocence doesn’t withdraw at any age.
This whole adult world dismantles my love for the sweet, childish days where daisies are the token of a timid love between two shy humans. I write like a child because I want you to live in spring all year long, to be enveloped by April for eternity, even when I am gone.