This feels like a running joke of I know what you did last summer. February 14th is the one day of the year I would love to have a SO, yet I always come up short. Maybe that’s the problem. I love being on my own for the other 364 days of the year.
Despite how much I enjoy my #singlelife, I really didn’t think I’d still be single on Valentine’s day two years on from when I wrote my first post on the exact same topic, or the one I wrote last year.
But, in all honesty, I love being single and I suppose I have had a few love interests here and there and in between, but nothing has lasted long enough to stretch over February.
Perhaps I’m jinxing myself or self-sabotaging my relationships or just incredibly unlucky. (And no, it’s not because I’m picky, or have unreasonably high expectations. I’m just a normal girl, looking for a super-amazing-white-knight type of guy and asking him to love her.)
So I’m only going to say this once: Next year, on Valentine’s Day, I will STILL be single and alone and watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice and Lost in Austen.
I’ll keep you posted on what really happens in 2019.
Luckily, I have an awesome housemate who I can commiserate with while we watch reruns of You’ve Got Mail, drink light-bodied unoaked Sauvignon blanc from Marlborough and fawn over that Tinder-Knight in shining armour who will no doubt save us one day.
Because that’s what I do best.
I dream about love.
The central theme of most of my novels has always been of ‘an almost unending quest to find love’ – as much as I like to pretend it’s not. I often tell myself that my heroine ‘is on a journey to discover who she really is and that she has the strength to look after herself.’
But that’s total bullshit.
She’s on a mission to find her love story and I want my characters to get their happily ever after. Always.
The one’s who deserve it anyway.
So here’s to another year of being single, happy and writing sappy love stories that are as cringe worthy as I want them to be.
And maybe actually publishing them too.