As a writer, it’s phenomenally easy to struggle. The words don’t come. The block becomes a post code. Your head is filled with negativity. You start to lose the essence of who you are.
The words don’t come. It’s all you think about. My best friend (who guest stars in many of these posts) declared that my recent writing rut was caused primarily by an unexpected bout of happiness. Being happy is a terrible condition for a writer. It’s true. We thrive off the anguish, the heartache, the soul destroying mundaneness of life. I’ve been drinking less lately as well because my happiness has curbed this routine somewhat.
Some of my best material was born from tipsy nights, walking home after a few glasses of whisky.
‘OH THAT’S GOOD, I’LL WRITE THAT DOWN!’
‘Sheree, that’s the pavement, not a notebook! And you can’t write with that tree branch!’
When happy, there’s just no time for those crazy periodic know-the-bartender drinking sessions. Unless it’s a glass of wine with a meal, in between holding hands and smiling. Love heals some wounds but stops the wounds that give birth to words. It’s a tricky little guy. I’ll have to have a word with him. BUT I CAN’T FIND THE WORD!
And then sometimes we sit down and force our fingers to make contact with the keys on our keyboard and we do what feels natural, answering that innate, primal urge. It doesn’t matter what emotions are coursing through your veins. We write because we were born to tell these stories. It is our duty. It is our privilege. Happiness can be a trigger.
I wish you a happy day of writing.