Bridges, Breakups, and Being Broke
Sometimes you need the bottom to drop out...
Hello, babieees! I have so many ideas in my Notes app that I wanted to write out here, but I have to be honest. Life has me pinned to the ground and is giving me wet willies.
During some recent anxiety-induced Instagram-scrolling, I saw that Naima Cochrane’s Music Sermon account was highlighting favorite song bridges. Songs are becoming shorter again, barely hitting 3 minutes sometimes, for TikTok-abilty, it seems, so people are sacrificing bridges. A bridge is a section of a song, often in the last half, that’s different musically but eventually returns to the original. Usually, it is the most emotional part of the song and where the singer shows out, lyrically or sonically.
Listening to the songs Naima highlighted, I had an epiphany: bridges are the equivalent to third act breakups in romance novels. Stick with me.
You need the bottom to drop out to feel and appreciate the swell when everything comes back together.
I cut my teeth on third-act breakups. I have no problem with them. In fact, I might even be writing one. However, I’ve noticed the new crops of romance readers are decidedly conflict-averse, even as they gobble up stories about masked fairy giants who are in the mafia and ride motorcycles through town on their way to kidnap the self-insert heroine from their multi-penis alien rival who recently escaped hell. (I poke fun but I love the diversity of storytelling in romance.) But heaven forbid if the main characters don’t immediately fall in love and stay there throughout the entire book.
The third-act breakup shows you how the main characters respond to internal (as in within their relationship) conflict. It tells you if their love can survive future drama. It gives the reader a chance to miss the chemistry, the banter, the sweetness. Do you want them to overcome or do you realize maybe it’s better they’re not together? Did they learn from their mistakes? Every romance doesn’t need a third-act breakup, no, but they do serve a purpose.
I do understand why some people dislike third-act breakups. Anything can become cliche, and sometimes the breakups could’ve been avoided if one person spoke up and communicated, instead of projecting. To learn good communication, sometimes you need to read a bad form of it. Good, strong writing can cure you of any “icks” you may have when it comes to overdone devices. I also think some people are really leaning into the idea that romance novels are a form of escape from reality. We get enough conflict and stress in life. Maybe folks don’t want it in their book fantasies. I think that’s a lot to ask of the art you enjoy: I only want to feel happiness. That’s just impossible, darlin’.
Speaking of impossibilities…
Many years ago, one of my favorite writers said it took him 7 years to write one book. Like the 20-something child I was, I scoffed. If all I had to do was write, I’d probably publish a book a year. I have since learned my lesson. It’s hard writing about love and romance when you’re in survival mode and constantly fighting the bad lies your brain tells you.
Some people let the threat of eviction light a fire under their bums. They pound out a whole book in a day. Not I, said the cat. I worry that every time I hear someone open the hallway door onto my apartment floor, it’s my landlord or the cops coming to evict me. My mother has been helping me, but she’s retired and on a fixed income so I lie about how much money I need. And that in turn means… I worry that my lights will be cut off at any moment… and my wi-fi and my cell phone.
I think about how I’m failing at life, at adulthood. I think about all the free content I’ve given away. All the times I didn’t negotiate so I wouldn’t be labeled difficult and ignored for future projects. All the times I knew I was being paid less, as a Black woman, but decided not to rock the boat. All the projects I fumbled. The deadlines I missed. I think about how I should’ve used my youth and beauty when I had the chance. The men who said they’d hate for me to leave but offered no support for me to stay. The men who arrived empty-handed yet expected grand hospitality and access to all of me. The men who thought me asking for a col’drank made me a gold-digger. The men I’d been fucking for years who couldn’t even be bothered to send a bouquet of flowers after a health scare and got mad when I asked them for one because I had cast a spotlight on their own thoughtlessness. The family who can’t understand why I’m not rich since I’m single and child-free. They don’t understand that being single means my cost of living is more. I don’t have a partner who thinks paying bills is all the affection I need. I think about how, at this point in my life, I thought I’d be able to help my mother rest and enjoy life. Now she’s more worried than ever, and I am a bad daughter.
Ultimately, this spiral of worry and overthinking leads me to the conclusion that no one wants me. No one wants to employ me. No one wants to pay me well. No one wants to love me enough to take care of me. And if no one loves me, how can I write about what I no longer experience? So I sit looking at my notes, looking at a blank screen, and overthink everything else. Like… Why does a job interview process take 3 months? DO YOU WANT ME OR NAH? My bank account is negative triple digits. I have $13. I am filled with shame and guilt. My cat is mad at me for rationing treats. Hire me so I can live.
The bottom has fallen out, and I’m ready for the swell of a generous life again.
This post got away from me. Just like all my dreams for this year. Yikes.
Check out Apostrophe Puzzles, which has beautiful artwork as puzzles
I like Sir CandleMan for his candle recommendations. He also talks about colognes and perfumes.
A Black Girl in the Middle by Shenequa Golding
The Truth According to Ember by Danica Nava
Exhibit by R.O. Kwon
I’m Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself by Glynnis MacNicol
The Slowest Burn by Sarah Chamberlain
A Love Like the Sun by Riss M. Neilson
Sorry I don’t have a brighter or more cheerful post. Maybe next time.
I don’t know how any of us are surviving, but I thank you for sticking with me through the not-so-pretty, not-so-thirsty times.
If anyone has a podcast or writer job for me, please let me know.
P: paypal.me/NicholePerkins
V: https://venmo.com/u/nicholeTN
C: https://cash.app/$womanTN
Here is an excerpt from the acknowledgments page of what I hope will be this damn romance novel if I can ever get out of my own way and finish writing it:
Johnnetta, who asked me to write a love letter to the boy she liked in 2nd grade. I got in trouble for it because Mrs. Boyd it was too inappropriate, but later that year, Mrs. Starks told me I was going to grow up to be a writer, so I guess I’ve always been who I am.