Happiness has made me a dull writer

Yesterday's post about my daughter's love of books was supposed to be more interesting. I was admittedly watching History Channel's Alone when I pecked it out on my phone, one eye watching bush craft enthusiasts build hobbit homes and crab traps.

I know it was a boring post. I just wanted to share; I just want to write, but my imagination is like an old Lab that's playful by nature but would really just prefer to nap. The result is literary rainbow puke with some cute pictures thrown in for good measure.

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I am happy in my life right now. I am even content, an emotion that had eluded me most of my adult life. While that's great, it's not been the most powerful writing tool.

In my former blogging days, I had a lot of internal conflict to use as fodder. Pain was my old muse, and it's since left me for another soul. I am looking for a different kind of muse now.

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At least now I am writing again, and that is more than I can say for the last few years. I am re-developing literary muscles that atrophied with the languid happiness of love, babies and home life.

Author Anne Patchett:

"The journey from the head to the hand is perilous and lined with bodies. It is the road on which everyone wants to write – and many of the people who do write – get lost…only a few of us are willing to break down our own hearts by trading in the living beauty of imagination for the stark disappointment of words."

As always, thank you for reading.