I find that I find it easier to write when I have a lot to think about that I can’t necessarily talk to anyone about. Or when everything is not quite right. Or when life has some semblance of a pseudo-tragedy. Do you know what I mean? And when I was single I had a lot of time to reflect on why I was single and all the reasons I enjoyed it and how afraid I was of getting into a relationship and all the reasons I was so afraid and what all those reasons meant. That made for a lot of great writing material for me.
And I really was afraid of getting into a relationship. Because everything ends. Everything up until now has inevitably ended. So I fret. I fret a lot. And I’m sure he doesn’t enjoy that. But when I fret I recount all the reasons that this is different. All the good reasons. All the happy thoughts. I think about his awesomeness. And that helps some. But even while I worry (and, believe me, I don’t want to be a worry-er) I’m happy and I know it (clap your hands, won’t you?).
The thing is…I find writing about happiness and stuff very tough to do without sounding, well, corny. This is for me though. I will happily read about your version of happiness and be happy for you. But when I write about it I feel like I’m spewing rainbows and that makes me gag. So when, by night, I write poems about the kind of love I’m feeling, I go back and read them by the light of the next day and wish that I not chosen to make them public. Then I read them again at night and think, Ah, this is perfect. I don’t know why my feelings for these poems is different depending on the sun’s position in the sky or its lack, thereof, but it is what it is. My feelings for him remain constant: love and adoration and admiration and awe. My feelings about my writing though…are different.
So I have little to write about. Any grave, stressful thoughts I have I’m able to discuss freely with him. Any over-thinking I do is conveyed to him and managed there. And every feeling I have for him is openly expressed to him too. I have practically nothing to write about. I’m in love and so is he and, sure, there’s a few hundred miles between us but we’ve found the silver lining there too and everything otherwise is hunky-dory so far (touch wood!). I’m happy and that is not helping with my writing. So if I had any creativity to begin with I don’t know where the hell it is right now.
…In writing this I’m figuring that since my reflections on life’s unfairness aren’t going to help with material for this space (because life is finally delivering and I love it, dammit!) I must find new topics to write about. I must look in hitherto unexplored corners of my mind. I must delve into other hidden spaces and open other lids of chests, pull out and shake open a blanket or two and pay close attention to what tumbles out.