I had recently been feeling that my relationship with F. Scott Fitzgerald was on shaky grounds. My parents assured me that the age difference was to blame, and my friends suggested that we had grown apart. I felt that I didn't have time for writers who couldn't provide me with two, what I thought, necessary, things - a beautiful writing style and a good story line. I was worn out by writers who flirted with one ideal or the other, but couldn't commit to both. I accused him of falling under this banner, but I don't think I did him justice with this label.
The season I spent away from Fitzgerald gave me time to experiment, but the time also made me forget about the nicer parts of living with him. I threw my time and care to Jonathan Safran Foer, and for weeks on end I went to bed each night with the lovely Mr. Herriot chattering warmly away in my ear. But Spring romances faded on my shelf and I returned to Fitzgerald. I wondered whether we still shared a spark of love anymore Just so I could know for sure that it had properly died out after those months of avoidance.
I was soon reawakened to his loveliness; his subtleties, his beauty and romantic whims. He forgave me quickly for my doubt and amended my fears with his familiar smile - a smile that warmed me every page of our romance. We danced alone, long into the night, for hours and hours, back in love. He reminded me quickly why I had fallen in love with him in the first place.