About this time of year, I'm usually involved in resolutions. Resolutions to be good, resolutions to actually do something with my life, resolutions to work out. *cough* It's not January. It's February, a month after New Years and, thus, the time when I've finally figured out my goals. I'm beginning a new chapter of my life every February, and I always feel like I'll make this next number the most important.

Maybe it's because I'm getting old now, or I feel like I'm getting old, but this February has not even breathed a whisper of goals and plans. No, it's fluttered with romance. It sprung up with Rilla of Ingleside and blossomed as I lost myself in Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, and Anne of the Island, a trilogy detailing the Pride & Prejudice-esque romance of Gilbert Blythe and Anne Shirley. Then, this morning, I reconnected with a friend, someone who I used to like but had "gotten over," as it were.

Anyway, I've tried to control my crazy heart the best I can. I'm a very temperate person, and I don't gush or flirt...for the most part. I'm afraid I embarrassed myself rather exceedingly around him, and I was quite content never to encounter him again. And now, horror of all horrors, I am discovering that he and I have very similar feelings about a certain cause. What is this? Why am I accosted with similarities? Why can't our differences be so glaringly obvious that I am forced to disdain him?
Then, to top everything off, I went and saw Leap Year tonight. On the whole, I am not a big chick flick fan. I actually hold them in rather cold regard. There's always someone dying, or sleeping together, or cheating on someone, or it's just plain dorky. But Leap Year had none of those things - though some may say it was slightly predictable - and it was honestly very funny! I could laugh and not wince at the subject of my hilarity, and that made me very happy.

My head is full of romance now. I'd already known that the British Isles were the most romantic spot on earth, even if I've never been there. Practically all my stories are set there, there, or what I imagine "there" to be like. My favorite ages are those in the first hundred centuries of this side of Christ. There's such a magical feeling to those times; it's like the breath of the Druids still hangs in the air. Arthur's footsteps have not yet been washed away by rain, or perhaps they have yet to fall.

All this is to say that there has never been a more perfect time to write the chapter of Daniel's proposal, and all their interactions once they meet again. (Ah, I have separated the young lovers! How very cruel of me...) There is more highflown language, more glimpses and soft blushes sufficing their cheeks. Well, not Daniel's. Daniel's face turns red. He's a guy. It's Ivolet who blushes...

*squee* I'm all so very *squee*. I'm going to blame it on Valentine's Day. I've never been much into that romantic side of Valentine's Day. Never much worried about it. I'm still not worried about it, but I somehow contracted rapid heart beats like I contracted this scratchy throat.

But I simply can't write those romantic scenes now! I have to go in order, or else I'll get off the path, or miss something, or add something, which is even worse. And I'm quite a ways from when they meet up again. Ah, life with separated lovers is quite dismal. They're both moody now, moody and angsty and on edge. Ivolet is being all cold and unemotional and depressed towards Martin, and I'm a little scared to see what's happened to Daniel when I return to him. Poor Daniel. He's having to cope with a lot, I know. It's very cruel of me.


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