books for lonely hearts and lovers

a guest essay for sweep-you-off-your-feet February

One of my favorite questions to ask a new friend is, "What color does your mind assign to each month?" Some cock their heads in confusion. But others, my people, rattle off their colors of the month with a confidence and understanding that ensures me a thick-as-thieves’ friendship is soon to come. To me, and I'm hoping many of you will agree, February is always and forever painted Pepto Bismol Pink (Pink? for February...groundbreaking). And pink, as society and Hallmark has so thoroughly trained us to know, represents all things romance, and hearts, and L.O.V.E! Welcome to love month, everybody! I'm so happy we're here.

love lifts us up where we belong…right?

For a long time, and probably because love of the romantic variety has not come easy, I pushed away all things boyfriends and romance, any moony, starry-eyed, sweep-you-off-your-feet feelings. So much so that years ago, I remember crying to my mom, talk-sobbing "it's all anyone will talk about," yet fiercely claiming that I was too busy, self-sufficient, and TOTALLY HAPPY on my own. I pushed away the thought, the notion, the need with straight arms and a stony face. So, February in all its pink, and with all of its cupids, has left me always feeling some type of way.

we don’t talk about young rupert everett enough

Left out? Missing the joke? Wanting.

But, as with some of my strong opinions, they are loosely held. I've grown! I've matured! And I've evolved! So, at the prime age of 30, I find myself in a position where I am (maybe) brave enough to admit to myself (and to the internet) that I want love, to love, and to be loved. An admission that is scary and vulnerable, and honestly a huge relief. Now I can finally start looking.

If I've lost you in the plot of my ramblings, someone else can thoroughly express my feelings better than I can—I recently rewatched the Greta Gerwig film adaptation of Little Women (my deepest apologies to Louisa May Alcott. I have never read your book, and knowing myself, I probably never will), and our heroine Jo summarizes what I'm feeling best. She sobs, "women have minds and they have souls as well as just hearts. They've got ambition and they've got talent as well as just beauty. I am so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for. I'm so sick of it! But—I am so lonely." What freedom comes to those who admit how they are feeling and what they want.

And I think we can all agree—love sounds so damn lovely. So, this love month, I’ll celebrate the loves I do have, the friendships, and careers, and home, and life; actively embrace the hearts, the romance, the moony starry-eyed sweep-you-off-your-feet pink of it all, all the while hoping for the love I have yet to find. But, if that's not enough, I'll revisit the books that I love and that are maybe a little bit about love and let them comfort me for a while. Because that sounds lovely too.

Tom Lake by Ann Patchett

Oh, there is nothing I love more than the idea that one small decision could lead me to the love of my life and a family I love dearly...this idea is propaganda for daydreaming, and reevaluating, and scheming, and dreaming. A love story between a woman and her daughters, her life, her husband, and her past, I found Tom Lake to be brimming with love and honesty. It made cry, call my mom, and yearn for a daughter one day. I loved it so SO much!

Humor Me by Cat Shook

I'm in a bit of a book club with a friend where we exchange books every few weeks during our five-minute parking-lot visit following a Thursday morning Pilates class. Emily showed up with Humor Me one morning, she and Cat, the author, were in the same high school class, and said I had to read it—I would love it. And I absolutely did. With a little bit of romance and a little bit more of female friendship, Humor Me celebrates how it feels to fall in love—with someone else, with your friends, with your city, and with yourself.

American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld

Aside from the fact that my mom would not allow me to read Prep in seventh grade because it was "too advanced" (after reading it for the first time a few years ago, I'll eat crow and admit that she was right. It was.), I came to know and utterly fall in love with Curtis Sittenfeld's books in my mid-twenties. For whatever reason, American Wife has lingered in my mind longer and more permanently than the rest. While I would not say that this book is explicitly about love—it’s one of Sittenfeld’s historical retellings, this time about Laura Bush—I would push that American Wife explores the intimacies of life from grief to love to marriage. I was sad to say goodbye to my friends, the characters, after finishing.

Euphoria by Lily King

Set in the 1930s following three anthropologists stationed in New Guinea, Lily King's Euphoria is heartbreaking, fascinating, beautiful, and spellbinding. It's a quieter choice but a sleeper hit nonetheless. I love a period piece, I love a love triangle, I loved the tension; simply put, I didn't want the book to end. And that last chapter—be still my heart!

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Please respond to this email if you have strong opinions on the colors of the months.