I touched upon this subject very briefly some time back and I find that it is haunting me again now. I am (shhh, don’t let anyone know) happy, and I have been for some time.
I have a fulfilling job, a wonderful dog, a happy home, a healthy family and a variety of interests and creative outlets. I am comfortable in my own skin; I know what I want and have a very firm handle on what I will and will not accept for myself.
And yet I feel that in order to keep writing with any sort of regularity I must revisit ghosts from my past and dredge up issues that really no longer haunt me. I am able to recall what I felt then and am able to reflect upon it in order to put words on paper, but it’s just like watching a movie I’ve already seen – the impact of remembering those events lessens each time I call upon them.
It seems possible that there will come a day on which I will stop writing. All the remembered sadness will have been used up and I will be content and relaxed – but I don’t yet know whether I look forward to this day or I dread it. For writing is now part of the definition of who I am…yet it seems infinitely more difficult to write about happiness than it does to write about the ache of a broken heart.
Is this why there are more songs about breakups than there are about happy relationships? Or are we just too busy when we’re happy to sit down and write?