A slightly cheesy view — but sincere all the same

On Cheesy Words and Other Dangerous Feelings

I have a problem with love, nice things, compliments, and all that soft stuff. Not with feeling them, but with writing them. Whenever I try to put love into words, it tends to collapse into something trivial, possibly fake. Sometimes even stupid. And most often: cheesy.

Looking up “cheesy” doesn’t help, because the dictionary definition is exactly what I mean — not tasteless, not rotten, not moldy, but something you instinctively hesitate to be associated with. A bit like buying a heart-shaped box of chocolate in public. You want to give it. Be proud to show it to the world. You want someone to feel what you feel. But still… there you stand, hoping nobody sees you with that thing. It feels cheap, and that is not you, nor your feelings. They are genuine — and how could even a plain box of chocolate communicate this? Could anything, really?

And receiving that heart-shaped box — don’t people feel a bit foolish then too?

Or is it just me, being afraid of these overexposed signs of feeling, possibly thinking they’re fake, or wondering what that person now wants from me? Instead, I prefer my safe zone, the subtle codes shared only with the people I share my life with. Those whom I embrace in my love (oh, that felt a bit cheesy to write). For instance, giving just a single red rose feels cheesy. I’ve done that too — but then, when we had kids, I adopted the habit of giving my wife a rose for every member of our family, each with its own color. The dog got a rose too. That felt much better. More genuine. More me.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Writing something nice is an attempt to relate. To connect. To let someone know that your words of love are a small harbor for feelings that otherwise would go unsheltered. A cozy corner to snug into and feel safe, knowing someone’s got your back, as I’ve got theirs as well. It should be easy. Just a few words, said or written sincerely. Straight to the heart of things. The shorter the better.

Yet the moment I try, the wording stiffens. The sincerity curdles. And suddenly the message meant to bring closeness creates a strange distance instead — something you spit out with disgust, then hold at arm’s length before disposing of, never to be seen again.

Music is an excellent reminder of this spitting problem. There are plenty of songs I’ve loved (yes) without ever listening to the lyrics. A big hit can carry the cheesiest lines ever written, wrapped in melody and production — a fondue of emotion and groove where you don’t notice the ingredients until you’re already halfway through it. But then something stands out. A word. A line. And suddenly I start listening. The holistic embrace turns into analysis, dissection, and there it is — the actual words.

Yuck.

Love, love, love — in the cheesiest way. The spell breaks. Or explodes. Banalities everywhere. My world crumbles a bit as I find myself fooled, wondering how I got tricked into accepting a rhyme that wouldn’t survive five seconds outside the studio. Ashamed, I delete the song from my playlist.

I’ve noticed this problem more clearly since I started writing fiction. My earlier writing life was academic, where the danger was never cheesiness but dryness. The challenge was to stay observational, neutral, clever and — if the gods were kind — perhaps a little witty. Keeping up the persona of a trustworthy academic. Feelings were not just discouraged; they were escorted out of the building by security… along with Elvis.

Fiction is different. Feelings want to enter. Should enter. Love wants to enter, along with a whole mountain of varieties. And suddenly I have to find a way to write about the most important things without sounding like I’m preaching the Book of Love as if I had written it myself. On the other hand: throats being cut, guts bursting and flying through the air, blood everywhere. No problem. But love?

My solution, for now, has been to soften the entrance and exit around these delicate moments. To wrap them in a bit of narrative cloth so they don’t stand there alone, shivering. Poor sods. Protecting them from an ambush I would surely be the first to launch. Whether it works or not, I’m unsure. Here’s an example for you to judge (from my latest novella, where I added a small breather, an intermission, letting my own voice surface):

“That said, while taking a small rest like this, remember to use the time you have been given wisely: get a cup of coffee, enjoy the solitude of the bathroom or maybe call friends and family and tell them you love them. One should never underestimate the power of these small things. But enough from this meddling narrative voice. Back now to our small, stumbling fellowship.”

As you see, I try to use humor along with contrasts, rhythm and a bit of mischief to bolster what I most deeply want to express: If you love someone — tell them. But that alone won’t do. These feelings need to be carried by the style and flow of the larger text. They must be embedded. That way, they feel less cheesy than they would standing alone. At least to me. It took time, and I worked on the paragraph throughout the whole writing process. Still, I do not know. Does it feel cheesy?

So back to the general question guiding these thoughts: Why is this kind of writing so hard when other feelings and scenes come more easily?

My suspicion is that writing about deep, sincere affection exposes something raw. Perhaps being male contributes a layer of awkwardness, but mostly I think it’s because these feelings are fundamental. They matter. And anything that matters brings the fear of not doing it justice. Who am I to pin such feelings to the page with the right balance of truth and tone?

So, I’m practicing. I need to get more comfortable in order to develop my voice. I’m letting myself be a little cheesy when needed, and I guess my choice of the pseudonym Tjiso comes from this — the pronunciation not far from “cheesy.” Not actually fearing these sentiments, but trying to embrace them, become friends, though in a way that still feels personal, manageable, mine.

My conviction is that we need more acts — and more texts — about these fundamental feelings, and that we must get used to them, even when they seem out of place. They deserve to spread and permeate all dimensions of life. And when we let them enter and expand, something else must move aside. At the very least, there will be less room for things like hate and fear. Our attention should shift, and with it, our thinking — toward what lies at the very idea of being alive. We might even begin to appreciate the closeness we feel to other human beings — all human beings — and become more human in the process. Looking into the mirror, that is the ongoing change I feel in myself, and that feeling is extraordinarily satisfying.

Quite naïve, I know. Possibly rather cheesy. But still a path worth pursuing.

And please, tread gently in the comments. This bleeding heart may not crack and die from exposure, but an open chest is no invitation to fire at will.