I've half a mind to write an open letter to the person who came up with the concept of writer's block. Few things are as frustrating as feeling like a dry well, when I used to write pages and pages of anything and everything that had the privilege and curse to run or crawl through my stormy sea of a mind. Granted that creativity stems from personality, could it be that my personality has evolved to be less flowery? My literature has always ranged from the overly structured to the messy scribblings of a frustrated beat writer, so why is it that I find writing, in any style, or about any subject, particularly difficult these days? I have long accepted that happiness, or any semblance of it, even dull normalcy, is anathema to the writer (artist?) but even in the wake of non-denial, there are still no ways for me to allay the problem. Most of the tools I've found that supposedly quash writer's block are geared towards writers of fiction, and though I've written the odd short story here and there, it is something I am not, which renders those tools useless.

What is it about the absence of misery that stops creative juices from flowing? I've always adhered to the notion that when you aren't in the mood to hole up in a dark room and hide under the covers, you're too busy living, participating in things that would ordinarily grate on your nerves, like people with overly sunny dispositions. You're occupied with human interaction, not shunning conversation like the plague, and even finding yourself contributing parts of your story, your life, and not feeling like a dark cloud that's about to rain on everybody's parade. And that in itself makes you happier, leading you to dig a deeper grave for your chosen creative outlet. For instance,I woke up a little before noon today, and instead of groaning and grabbing my pillow to cover my face from the blinding sunlight, I opened my eyes, still glazed from sleep, and sat up. I used to spend countless hours in bed, on my back, staring at the ceiling, replaying scenarios in my head that caused me considerable amounts of shame and remorse. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me. Either that or sleep for a few months. Don't get me wrong here, I am insanely glad that my depression hasn't returned to kick me in the ass for more than 2 years but the trade-offs are rather noticeable. Yes, I may not fantasize about ways to off myself without leaving much of a mess anymore but what it has done is leave me spaced out whenever I put myself in front of a blank page, digital or otherwise. I suppose the best thing to do is write about why I'm happy and how I want it to stay that way.