Rested, positive, and nothing at all to say

Examining the happiness/art seesaw

We here — on Medium, on the Internet, hovering over keyboards worldwide — spill endless words scraping our way toward a happier place. We tend to careful examination of our depression, of loneliness, of lost love. We coddle our words and polish them carefully to cure ourselves, to purge ourselves, and maybe to find some redemption after existential suffering.

I do it. Sometimes as I crank away at this 100 Words project, I find myself thinking, “Why on earth would anyone care about what I’m writing? This is some radically self-indulgent navel gazing, but boy does it feel good.”

Last night, I slept more hours than usual, probably more than in weeks. I woke up rested and revived after a Sunday of tears and hand-wringing. I tackled my Monday with earnest clarity and ran meetings with focus and confidence. I was a boss. (Really, I am a boss, but I also really felt like a boss.)

At home with my kids, I cuddled. I cooked. I caught up with childhood friends. I smiled relentlessly and cleaned the kitchen to new music and a silent soundtrack of boisterous confidence that the world is good.

Then I sat down here with absolutely. Nothing. To. Say.

What to write when life is good? Without angst, the edges feel smoother and duller. Happiness — probably temporary, because life —erases the friction that lights sparks or scratches out the most imaginative images. For just a moment tonight, sitting here at my kitchen table, I wondered if impending happiness spelled my total creative demise. Maybe it does.

I’ll take the tradeoff.