I've had a hard time writing lately. This usually happens when I'm happy, distracted, or some mixture of both. I'm not exactly a bundle of cheer, but that works for writing. I've been told I'm a special brand of sad, insofar as my sadness -- or the way I reflect on it -- is poignant enough to make people feel they're not alone. I can make people feel something, and I guess that's a good thing, right?
If I look outside myself, there's enough discontent to last a lifetime. Genocide in Gaza. Climate emergencies. Right wing bigots. Corporate greed. Rising costs of living.
But inside? In here, there's a newfound lightness, a new heartbeat, and I feel like I'm floating a little bit. I'm also sleepy all the time. Like I can actually rest my head these days without the imminent worries that once seemed to plague me.
I'm not used to this. It probably seems kind of boring to you as a reader. I have this natural melancholy that writes the story of my life. People seem drawn to it. Sometimes I worry that if I'm too happy, I'll lose my edge. I'll lose the way people come to me for advice or a keen ear, or a sense of commonality of pain. Or at worst, I'll lose what makes me who I am - socially conscious, compassionate, an outspoken activist heart. I don't want to be ignorant to the world's suffering, lest I forget how easily we are all at the mercy of those in power.
I don't want to lose my humanity or become so distracted I don't take time to think about the shit going on around me. But I also want to enjoy this sense of peace I'm feeling. I need nothing more than I have right now. I want to be with it.
But writing about joy? Well...it doesn't come as naturally. So from time to time, I might dig into the past, which I've done before. Or I might experiment and make things up entirely from the creative well I can pull things from. I don't write a ton of fictional pieces. I'm more confessional and open, but I have to keep flexing my writing muscles, and so I will.
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