Welcome to Notes on Love
Written from a hotel in Bali I don't know the name of
As we drove through Mumbai in the early hours of the morning I couldn’t help but think of everything I’d soon be sharing with you. Naturally, I had planned to write about my travels but four months in, everything I’ve written has felt like humidity.
I had planned to tell you where we went and all of the restaurants you must visit. To share the places we’d stayed with links to help you to find little temporary sanctuaries along your travels too. But truthfully I can’t tell you the names of the places we’ve been or share ‘tips’ with you because I can’t even remember the name of the hotel I am sitting in writing this, but what I have remembered is I am not a travel writer.
That is a skill I do not possess nor am interested in acquiring and trying to do it anyway is a sure fire way to do very little well, or nothing at all.
High on the Mardi Himal mountain trek I sat buried within a thermal jumper, wooly hat and three pairs of socks. My hands wrapped around, and my face nearly in, my first bowl of Thukpa. I can’t tell you which tea house, but I’ll never forget the way Dale looked at me and laughed after I’d unconsciously told him six times it was ‘the best thing I’d ever eaten.’
I couldn’t point to the town made of tin and cardboard we drove past in India on a map, but I remember the potted plant on the window ledge and knowing that no place, no matter the circumstance is devoid of beauty or the hunger for it.
Pressuring myself to write places, names and recommendations had stopped me from writing anything at all. All of my writing, ever, has been about love. The love I’ve lost and found. I write the love we have for ourselves and others and all the ways it shows up in the world. I love romance, I believe in soul mates and I love, love. When I write stories it’s always love and there is ample space in the bosom of the literary world for more love stories.
What else is there?
So here’s an re-introduction and an invitation for you to stick around and read short stories about love and it’s many faces (or occasionally a very important piece about a steaming bowl of Thukpa).
Kirstie x