Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.
I don’t know anything about Lou Reed. I have never purposefully listened to his music. I only know about Velvet Underground so I can play trivia with my geek friends. When he died, I paid my respects the way I normally do when I hear about someone’s passing via NPR’s early morning broadcast. I poured out a bit of the tea in honor. (Blame my upbringing in the 90s, Gangsta Lean video, and an exposure to libation ceremonies for that.)
His death was not interesting to me. But I do know about love. At least I think I do. The story that his wife penned about their relationship gutted me. You can read her story here on the Rolling Stone website.
Go ahead. Read it. Revel in it and then come back. I’ll still be here.
The dots of my life are all scattered across this blog and my other writing. The waiting for love (cue Luther Vandross here). The yearning for being special in the eyes of your beloved. My desire to be able to use my Nutella packages in every despicable yet consensual way. (I’m sorry if I went there, but I can’t have Nutella on my diet so I’m dreaming about it with a ferocity that might scare the uninitiated.) My love of love. My love of the New York Times Wedding section. My desire to be happily in something deep with someone who gets me.
The relationship detailed in those pages is the ideal for me. Love found at any age is awesomely beautiful. This gave me hope in the dry, parched land that I call my life.
To paraphrase the great Willie Nelson: “Ninety percent of the people in the world end up with the wrong person. And that’s what makes the jukebox spin.” They–Laurie Anderson and Lou Reed–were in the ten percent. I want to be in that ten percent.
One day, I hope. One day soon…maybe.