I’ve never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. This is not some bitter single lady rebuke, nor will I rant about crass commercialism. No, Valentine’s Day has always been like my own personal Friday the 13th, full of bad memories and bad luck completely unrelated to romance. I was thinking this morning that surely I had some good Valentine’s Days, years when friends bought me flowers or a boyfriend and I had a nice day together, but those aren’t the ones I remember. Instead I’m plagued with, of all things, memories of a segment filmed for local TV gone bad, of coming down with the flu while on vacation, of a package sent to me as a Valentine’s Day gift that got lost in the mail for almost an entire month.
But I’m a romance writer and I’m a sappy romantic on the inside, so I feel obligated to say it’s not all bad. A friend of mine and I still exchange snarky ecards, a tradition we’ve had for almost ten years. And there are things worth celebrating: my brother and his girlfriend are celebrating six years together and good friends of mine just got engaged.
I spent the day with friends. My usual Sunday brunch group came over to my apartment and I prepared a small feast, with eggs and challah french toast and bacon and lots of fresh fruit. A few friends stuck around all afternoon and we alternated between watching cheesy movies and Olympics coverage. So it’s been a pretty good day, all told.
So, tomorrow I’ll go back to writing romance. I’m working on a short story right now that I’m already thinking might be a longer work. And, of course, my book is out this week. It’s all very exciting.
I hope you all had a great Valentine’s Day. Give someone a kiss for me.