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Surely I’m as guilty as the next hack when it comes to the stark lack of sweet love rearing its red sappiness in my craft, but it’s not because I’m some stoic beast. If truth be told I feast on its syrup, gulping it down in gluttonous scenes rife with Waltonesque familial revelry (and not so PG vignettes with the wife). Why then when it comes to squirting my love ‘cross the page in the medium of ink, do I balk; gravitate to sourer things? Perhaps the same reason I don’t wear plaid, wide lapels, ascots or polyester- sharing my foppish side with only her Post a comment in response: |
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