HAPPY HAPPY NO WRITE
Why It’s Easier to Write When You’re Miserable
I don’t know if this is true but I’ll claim it
It’s a miracle!
Nah, I didn’t win the lottery or solve world hunger or find a cure for menopausal chin hair or anything…
The miraculous mention is that I’m writing! My awkward digits are chilling out with the keyboard. It’s been a while and these fingers forget some of the moves but, in general, it feels damn good.
My excuse? I’ve been too damn happy to write.
I’m not drowning my sorrows in sixteen pre-breakfast negronis. (In case you’re wondering, thirteen tends to be the magic number.) I’m not wailing into my pillow on an hourly basis. In simple terms — I’m not Dostoevsky enough.
You don’t know Dostoevsky? To simplify Wikipedia — mix half-orphan with rescuing a raped nine-year-old and Russian oligarchy. Add a sprinkle of recluse and a dash of Siberian camp exile. That’s a recipe for misery.
Yes, that was a tangent. What I really want to say is that I’m not currently shacked up in Miseryville.
Sure, I’ve had my own recipe for discomfort. Whip together walked-off-the-job-for-ridiculous-and-later-proved-unfounded-reasons…
