One morning in March 2020, I wrote a press release saying that the theater I worked at would be canceling our performances for what we hoped would be only a few months. I wrote it knowing that this decision meant 90% of the company was about to lose our jobs, until the theater could open again. I got the announcement out to reporters and up on social media in record time. And then I went outside and cried. One week later, I was unemployed, along with most of the American theater industry. I can't count the number of things I learned during the pandemic. I learned flattening the curve works—only a handful of people I know got sick, and no one died. (I was undeniably, irrefutably lucky.) I also learned the extreme mental health toll this pandemic took on every essential worker I know. I learned that my side-hustle ghostwriting romance novels turned out to be more stable than the sensible marketing career I'd worked so hard for. I learned how surreal it is to write a sex scene when it's been over a month since another living thing has touched you. I learned that when you file for unemployment online in Oregon, the icon you click is a photo of a sad woman staring down at her computer, so that you can feel the appropriate sense of shame. I learned that despite everything, we kept trying to reach for each other—over zoom, over the phone, through social media, on socially distanced park dates. But most of all, I learned that I couldn't predict the future. Like, REALLY couldn't predict the future. In many ways it was terrifying. My entire industry went up in smoke, millions of people died, and white supremacists stormed the U.S. Capitol where I'd once interned. But in other ways it was liberating. We developed a vaccine in record time. We elected the first Black woman as vice president. My city actually passed legislation aimed at reducing racist police brutality, instead of just talking about it. A friend who once thought she could never have kids told me she was pregnant. Before the pandemic, I hedged my professional bets because I didn't want to fail. Now I know that "playing it safe" is an illusion. We can't fully predict or control the future. Which is why I'm done hedging my bets. Last summer, I submitted my novel to publishers. In the fall, I co-founded Sonder & Spark, a digital romance publisher, and we put out our first book. This April, my own novel was published by Boroughs Publishing Group. It's the far from the first book I've written, but it's the first to be published under my own name. Then there's the biggest risk of all: In August I'm moving to NYC to pursue an MFA at The New School. My part of the world is slowly going back to normal. I get to hug the people I love again. (I told you I was lucky). But I'll always remember how deeply interconnected we are. I'll remember how quickly everything can go wrong. I'll remember how many people will jump in when it does, ready to work for a better world. And I'll fight for the risky, improbable things that matter most to me. Because win or lose, those are the things worth spending my life on.

As a teen at the Downtown Portland Library, I made sure to check out two literary novels for every romance novel I picked so that the librarians would know I was Actually Very Smart. (The introduction of self-checkout machines was a huge relief to my ego and backpack.) But despite my reputational aspirations, it was always the romance novels I went back to. I loved stories that prioritized women’s wants, communities, relationships, and happiness. I liked that romance novels never took the reader’s time or attention for granted. I admired authors who could convince a cynical world that choosing love and hope was not only an intrinsically good thing—It actually worked. I still love romance, but now I write it too. I’ve developed romance novel concepts and outlines for Relay Publishing and ghostwritten several independently published romance novels for clients. I recently co-founded Sonder & Spark, a digital romance publisher that put out our first book in September. And Boroughs Publishing just published The Last Big Fake, my first novel under my own name. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’ve learned how to trust my instincts while writing to deadline in unfamiliar topics and subgenres. I’ve taken what I’ve learned from watching and making theatre, absorbing writing blogs and podcasts, and an arts marketing career, and applied it to writing fiction that gives people the kind of healing escapism I found in all those library romance novels. When a hospital chaplain says my novels are a good escape in the time of COVID-19, every cheesy trope a client has demanded I use is worth it. When a loved one who lives with depression says my writing helped her feel better for a few hours on a bad day, that’s important. But I’ve reached the limit on what I can do as a writer without the literary training, diverse influences, structure, and support network that an MFA in creative writing can provide. The books I ghostwrite are essentially first drafts. I want to learn how to revise. I want to push beyond “good enough,” to write deeply and unforgettably without relying on charm and genre shorthand. I’m good at spinning story gold out of someone else’s flawed premise, but I want to be better at both developing my own ideas, and at recognizing which stories to invest in, and which ones to set aside. Most of my favorite love-story authors exist at a crossroads between romance and literary fiction: Jennifer Crusie, Sonali Dev, Graeme Simsion, Emily Henry, Helen Hoang, Talia Hibbert, Kate Clayborn. They write love stories that take the passion and fun of romance novels and marry it to the honesty, wisdom, and unconventional beauty of literature. Their books take romantic love as seriously as the other topics they explore: sizeism, immigrant experiences, neurodiversity, grief, creativity, sexism, friendship, community. They right fun, richly layered stories that expand our popular understanding of who and what is deserving of love, understanding, and, ultimately, happiness. A career as a novelist has always been my dream and my ultimate goal. But before the pandemic, I hesitated to sacrifice the fiscal and emotional stability of my marketing career to go all in on that dream. Instead of pursuing an MFA, I hedged my bets, explaining to my friends and family why getting writing experience via ghostwriting gigs was Actually Very Smart. When COVID-19 shuttered theaters across the U.S., it didn’t matter who had followed practicality into the back office and who had followed their dreams onto the stage: Most of us lost our jobs anyway. All of us had to reevaluate what mattered most to us. So I’m done hedging my bets, the same way I’m done downplaying my love of a genre that creates and celebrates joy. I’m pursuing an MFA in writing at The New School so I can become the kind of writer I want to be.

A few months into the pandemic, my sister suggested a Power-Point party. Each member of our family would make a presentation on a fun topic. Then we'd share them with each other over Zoom. (Yes, my family are a bunch of nerds). I talked about the romance novel industry. My dad talked about Oregon Ducks Football. My mom talked about her old rock-band from the '80s. My middle sister ranked popular pandemic hobbies. And then my youngest sister Maggie gave her presentation: How to Feel Like Things Will Probably Be Ok. She'd taken the re-framing tactics and calming exercises she'd learned in therapy, and applied them to the stress and fear she knew we were all feeling in 2020. We knew how to distract ourselves with a silly power-point party. But as someone who lives with chronic anxiety and depressions, Maggie knew how to fight for her own happiness and contentment every day, even when it felt like her own brain was working against her. Her advice really helped. I've seen first-hand how important normalizing conversations about mental health is. Maggie's life is immensely better because a You-Tuber she followed was open about her struggles with anxiety and depression, which lead to Maggie telling my parents that she thought she had depression and needed help. A big part of that normalization is incorporating mental health practices into the stories we tell. For Maggie, that's a Power-Point presentation. For one of my friends, it's telling a funny story about her therapy session. For me, it's writing romance, a genre that wrestles with questions like: How and why do we love each other? How can we love better? And what does a happy life look like? I write romance because, at it's best, it can be both a fun distraction during a difficult time and offer people potential models for pursuing an optimistic and meaningful life. It's the silly Power-Point party and the mental health tips all in one. We all tell stories to make sense of the world. Mine are better because Maggie tells me hers.

“Look at your life, Loretta! Look at your choices!” It was our favorite line from Moonstruck, the 1987 romantic comedy about a jaded New Yorker (Cher) who is willing to settle for comfort and stability until she meets her fiancé’s passionate, estranged younger brother (Nicholas Cage). It’s funny, gritty, romantic, and a perfect love letter to New York City and the working class families who fill it. It’s a movie about taking a chance and loving with your whole heart, even if it leads to your mother waving a spatula around as she questions your life choices come Monday morning. Naturally, my sisters and I quoted that line all the time, applying it to every “bad” decision we gleefully made. Ridiculous fashion trends, procrastinating homework, junk food at midnight. When we finally convinced one friend to watch Moonstruck with us, she waited eagerly for that line. Turns out, it’s not actually in the movie. We’d made it up, because it felt like it should be in the movie. To me, as a writer, that’s the highest compliment you can give a story. When you and your friends love a movie so much, it becomes shorthand for bigger questions: Will this decision make my life more difficult? Yes. But is the joy worth the difficulty? Also yes. I’m getting an MFA in writing because I want to write that type of story. The kind that makes people laugh, while also helping them understand something simple and important about what will ultimately make them happy in life. Will moving across the country and taking out student loans make my life more difficult? Yes. But is the joy worth the difficulty? Also yes. Because, to misquote a line that’s actually in Moonstruck: Playing it safe is the most dangerous thing you can do.