On falling in love

When I was a young man, I fell in love a lot. On six month cycles, it seemed. I enjoyed falling in love, no matter how many times it took. It was not until I reached about 30 - the time when boys finally begin to percolate enough to grow up and become men - that I fell in love for real. I have been married to my love for over 33 magical years.

Now I am falling in love all over again - with my characters. These people have become part of my family. I cry when I write sad things about them, or in their moments of catharsis and closure. I cannot read my own work aloud with choking up in the emotional parts.

I see them when I travel: Marianne, who I remember most in the bakery in Pont-Aven, but also feel her suffering at the gates of Natzweiler; the irascible Antoine, stuffing Marcel Gireau and his family into the lockers of his boat and bluffing his way past the harbor master; the red-haired beauty, Josette, who gave me the now famous gold-plated ring on the lovers’ lock bridge; the sad Gela who finally could tell her story and find peace.

There is little Nia, holding onto her cherished hair brush for dear life; and of course, my favorite, Ariéle - a vulnerable young child, a fierce young woman, and finally a wise matriarch of a very unusual family.

They represent the best in what I see in the world - strength, competence, and hope. I love writing about them.

This has to be the best job in the world.

L.W. Hewitt The Juno Letters