On the Hazards of Writing a Book About Love

It’s not often that I happen upon a great concept for a book. Usually, an idea will stroll into my Grey Matter waiting room, hang around until I notice it while sitting there reading a Children’s Highlights magazine, then run away once I tell myself that “That’s the stupidest story idea ever. What was I thinking?”

But last year I started thinking about how close I came to never getting married- and what my journey to the promised land of matrimonial bliss had entailed. And I thought, “This could be good. An epic tale of love’s labor’s lost, then found, then lost again…”

And so, without counting the cost, I dug in and started writing drafts. And that’s when some inspired ideas came my way, courtesy of The Muse (who was feeling uncharacteristically generous that day):

1. Why not write about all the young ladies and women you dated during that ten-year period, before finding your wife?

2. While you’re at it, give the women numbers instead of names. That will provide a comic edge to the story, while also showing how many women I encountered during my quest.

3. Giving them numbers will minimize the risk of being sued for invasion of privacy.

My wife Carol thought about my idea.

“You know, Dan, that’s weird enough that it just might work.”

That being all the encouragement I needed, I started going through my journals, all the while wondering why Carol had no objections to my taking an epic trip down Romance Lane. But in the end, I decided to not worry about it. Maybe this was her way of letting me put the past out of its misery.

Ilisted the females’ names, in chronological order, then assigned each one a number- which is when I hit my first snag.

Who merited inclusion? That girl I only dated once, before finding out she had a biker boyfriend with jealousy issues?

What about the ones I set up dates with, but backed out of at the last minute? I decided to include all of them; I’d sort out the expendables later.

That done, I started assigning dates, which is when I ran into my next obstacle: overlap. Though I might be taking out #32 on Thursday, and #33 next Saturday, I was doing so behind the back of #31, who was my current girlfriend. This necessitated creating a timeline.

Out came the 8.5 x 11" sheets, which I taped together horizontally. At first it was fun putting all those facts and figures and names on the sheets- but after a while, I realized I wasn’t in total possession of the facts. I had to start adding approximate dates for when I met this girl or that young lady. And soon, the project took on a blurry look making it hard to analyze. So that timeline went into the circular file.

Frustrated at my lack of progress, I took a break. Why not come up with some titles for the book?

Love’s Labor’s Loused

Cupid Goes To Rehab

My Runaway Hormones

Play It Again, Woody

“You’re Just Like A Brother To Me,” and 50 Other Kiss-off Lines

Realizing I’d only engaged in this activity as a stalling tactic, I returned to the job at hand.

The days passed; I was making headway. I’d documented that six-month on-again, off-again relationship with #17- the one that ended abruptly when I knocked on her door one evening and her new boyfriend answered, smirking as he stood by her side. But as I looked it over, I realized that while most relationships had their humorous moments, this one cast me in a less than savory light, the word stupid actually being a better descriptor.

I wondered what the reader would think of me, a victim of my own naivete, the lonely twenty-three-year-old taking out a senior in high school. When I stopped and thought about it more, I felt like a creeper, and wondered if there was such a thing as statutory dating in my state. In the end, I decided not to worry about #17 and how she made me look- the little tramp. I could always doctor that story later.

On I went, from one disastrous affair to the next, stopping only when I got to #32. A beautiful brunette, she was a coworker I’d started dating in order to drive away the assistant manager- the married man who’d decided that #32 would make a good substitute for his own wife.

Our dating was described in detail- especially the night she taught me how to kiss- which brought up another problem: How was I supposed to describe a makeout session in such a way that I wouldn’t have to hide the book every time my wife wanted to read it? I was already in stealth mode, shutting off the PC or scrolling the page to another spot every time my wife entered the room.

Between this and other concerns that kept cropping up like noxious weeds, I began having second thoughts about the project. Which is when I came to a crisis of faith. How could I possibly publish a memoir that involved sixty-six different women I’d dated or tried to date?

Even if I changed their names, or wrote the book as a novel, I could just imagine one of the Gang of 66 figuring out that I was writing about her, then contacting the others. I’d never live to see the day I was hauled into court as the sole defendant in a class action suit for invasion of privacy.

And so, here I sit, wondering if I should go ahead and finish the book, knowing it could never be published, but realizing that even if it only becomes a doorstop or a large set of fire starters, at least I’ve gotten some unresolved issues taken care of, and can now move on with my life- what there is left of it at 71 years of age…

Comments and questions are required welcomed. Ask me anything about memoirs, journaling or personal histories.