THE ART OF CREATIVE ROMANCE(Charles E.J. Moulton) The paintings posted here with the story were also created by Charles E.J. Moulton.


"I could, of course, write a short story about this," the author said looking at his wife.
His wife looked up, putting her plate aside into the cupboard. The author looked down upon the notations he had written. Scribbles, ideas, proposals for new projects, new stories, a list of possible places for acting auditions, a list displaying versatility, and all the while the uneasiness of freelancing, going to the unemployment office between jobs, getting strange looks from social workers.
The wife nodded to herself more than to her author husband. Thinking. "What about?"
The author smiled, fully aware that this might be more important to him than to her.
"How artists are rarely understood by the people who have regular jobs."
The author's wife responded with a long look, so contemplative that the author had to pause for a moment and think about where this was going.
"You are saying that there is such a thing as a regular job at all?"
The author waited, hesitated, looking down into his morning coffee. It seemed remote now. Some Columbian farmer had picked those beans six months ago so that the author could sit here and chat with his wife over his cup of hot java. Was that farmer doing a regular job?
"Do I judge people? Am I stereotypical?"
His wife turned around, laying one plate aside. A cute smile appeared on her face.
"Is that really proper English?"
The author smiled, eyed heavenward. "You know what I mean."
His wife nodded, continued cleaning up. "I think people judge too much according to what they see at first glance."
The author stood up, taking a break, leaving his table. Reaching for the coffee pot and pouring himself another cup, he thought about that Columbian farmer again, his two dollar job, his children, if he had any, his hard work on rough terrain. Did he see himself as regular? Does anyone?
"Look at us, for instance," the wife said, throwing the author a kitchen towel and pointing at the dishes. The author took one glass in his hand and began stroking it with the cloth. "If you saw us right now and you didn't know us, what would you think we were? I mean, me here in my apron and you with your notes and books and papers."
He looked at the coffee again, now a foot away next to the stove. "A businessman and his housewife."
The wife smiled. "Yeah. But we both know that is not true. Right?"
The author nodded.
"So we both know that people make quick assumptions about what they see and that most of that is wrong. It is rather sad, really, because if enough people make the wrong assumption about you, you might even start to believe that what they're thinking is who you are supposed to be."
The author opened up the cupboard and put the glass inside it. "You know someone like that?"
The wife nodded. "Remember Thea?"
The author took a sip of his black morning coffee. "The sexy blonde with the feisty temper?"
The wife pointed a finger at the author with an intensity that forced him to take a step back. Thoughts of female intensity came to mind and how emotional women seemed to be. Or was that also a stereotype?
"That is exactly what everyone said. They called her Lady Medusa because she had such a short temper. But I knew."
The author tried to deciphre what his wife meant. He had known the girl. Thea had a choleric fit because he had asked what she did in her free time.
"Knew what?'
The wife scowled, glancing at the author from the side. "She was insecure. So much so that Thea was on medication just to get through medical school. This girl had received her Bachelor's degree at 23 years of age and was working towards her Master's. But she had to change college because she felt misunderstood. Remember how she started screaming at you?"
The author nodded. "I vowed never to see her again."
"She was in love with you."
"No way."
"Way."
"She told you that?"
"Why'd you think I defended her?"
"But you ended up with me."
"Thank God. The problem was that nobody bothered to look behind the surface."
The dishes were pretty much dried and sorted by now, so the wife grabbed a cup and poured herself a cup of coffee. Calmly, the couple strolled to the kitchen table again.
"She told me. She had trouble finding a job. In fact, she had trouble finding anything. And she was active and fit and pretty and smart and cultural. I mean, she was always going to the opera. But people saw her as a recluse, a girl who spent most of her time alone. That wasn't true. People never bothered to look behind that surface in our college. So she left the city, moved to Europe. She's working as a doctor in London, I think. They all saw her as a bitch, but Thea suffered."
The author remembered his first kiss with the woman that now was his wife. After Thea stormed out of the restaurant that night the assembly spoke of nothing but Thea. And yet ... "She brought us together."
"And she didn't even know it."
"I remember you trying to defend her. I never knew why. I was just inspired by your kindness."
"I know," the wife said, taking the author's hand. "I fell in love with you. My point is that we started this discussion because you said that artists are people who are misunderstood by regular people. Thea was an artist in her own right. But what is artistic? But what is regular? Regular is bullshit. It is important for someone like you who works in so many artistic fields to make it clear to people that everyone has some creativity inside them. It doesn't mean you have to paint or sing or write for a living. It just means that if you are frustrated as an artist or as a person, writing a story about it is a perfect solution. Sing a song about pain. Or draw what you feel inside. I mean, just going into your walk-in closet and choosing what to wear on a particular day is creative. Knitting is creative. Telling someone that you love them is creative. Picking out a poster for your wall is creative. When the single mother chooses to read a book for her hyperactive children just to calm them down, she is making a creative decision. She has no other audience members but her kids, but they are a willing audience."
The author smiled. "I think I understand what you're saying. There are conflicts, but complaining about the difficulties will only complicate the matter further."
"You can always choose to battle conflict with creativity, just by asking yourself what your opponent does to express the feelings inside his soul. Most conflicts are superficial. The soul is a peaceful entity."
"So when Thea screamed at me back then I should have just told her the truth. That I just wanted to know more about her."
"You could have given her a compliment."
"Still," the wife mused, "I am happy you reserved your sweet nothings for me."
"Me, too."
"I'll check the web for Thea's contact information."
"A sign of good will."
The author's wife smiled seductively, stood up and walked over to her husband, taking her apron off, dropping it on the floor and unbuttoning her blouse. She went over to him, sat down on his lap and caressed him.
"Healing old wounds is also creative."
"And what else?"
"Kissing is."
"And?"
The wife played with a lock of her husband's hair, gently kissing his forehead.
"Before you write that story of yours, that will make us rich and you famous, I want to make a baby."
The creative spirit within him soared. Like angels on soft feet they tread through the kitchen and the hallway into the bedroom. She smelled like roses and magnolia, her skin as soft as silk, her breasts mounds of a better world. And when he erupted inside her he mused, inspired by this amazing symbiosis:

"In our individual uniqueness we are one. Every gust of wind that blows the feathers of birds around is sent by God to paint a picture of perfection. Art, music, ballet, literature are the creative orgasms of communicating spirits."

And when the author and his wife held their baby daughter in their arms only a year later, they knew their destiny lay safely imbedded within the happy blabber and faithful smiles of a little baby child, in not holding grudges, in making amends and in finding ways to express the urge for spiritual invention and inner creativity.

---