When I was little, I loved how the protagonists could go away from their loved ones for a reason. There was always a quest, a hunt, a regal battle that they would return from, into open, waiting arms.
When I was little, I loved how a single act could undo all wrong. Slay a dragon, defeat a demon, proclaim love, ride into a war, and all would persevere. They’d come back, say “I’m sorry”, and all was forgotten.
When I was little, I loved the “love” in the stories I read. It wasn’t perfect, it could be messy or upsetting or hard at times, but it was always passionate in the end, with flowers and laughter and sweet kissing.
I suppose that’s why I write stories as I do. Because real life, as clichéd as this is, isn’t like the stories I read.