This is not the problem. This is a desk.
No. The problem, if I'm being completely honest, is that I seem to be unable to write on a daily (or even weekly) basis unless at least one part of my life is crashing into ruin. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: no part of my life, that I am aware of, is currently crashing into ruin. I'm merely making a point here. Not a confession.)
I'm reminded of something I heard from a lovely singer/songwriter once, Carsie Blanton. As she was winding up her next song, she said (paraphrasing), "This next tune is a bit of a departure for me. I wrote it while in the middle of a real creative dry spell. And I was in that dry spell because, at the time, I happened to be in a healthy relationship." Thank you, Carsie, for hitting the nail on the head. Or, more precisely, for hitting my thumb, which was conveniently located on top of that nail. Look, I am not suggesting that being in a healthy relationship kills creativity. I am saying it DIRECTLY and OUT LOUD. Of course being emotionally happy kills creativity. No less an authority than Mark Twain put it out there when he said, "The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven." This isn't just me talking. Or even Twain. There's fucking science to back this up now. I am in a loving, emotionally stable (mostly) relationship. I enjoy my children. I have a small but robust circle of friends. And I am less prolific on the page than I have been since I got all those things. And I am far less funny.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. No worries, Lar. It's YOU. Pretty soon you'll fuck it all up, your life will go back to the shit heap, and then you'll be hitting the keys every day, dumping out your purse for the world to see, and it'll be hysterical, and we'll all laugh and be grateful we're not you. Except the thing is: I kind of LIKE the way my life is, now. I don't like it every day, to be sure. But I can say unequivocally that it's waaaayyy better than it was when I first began writing in this space, or even when I was writing the book. The idea of having to torpedo my life just to get back to that wellspring of creative misery... that choice doesn't appeal to me.
I don't know what the solution is, and I would be highly suspicious (or homicidally envious) of anyone who claims to know. I suppose, for a while at least, that writing will be a slog. For the three or four of you who will read this, fair warning: my next few posts are liable to be exceptionally ordinary. I am in the process of getting back into a habit, and that process is often ugly. Like, getting-back-into-the-gym-and-those-sweatpants-should-be-in-a-larger-size ugly. I believe, at an intellectual level, that I can be a prolific writer AND be reasonably happy. Well, maybe not prolific. I'm in no danger of becoming the next Stephen King (mostly because I'm pretty sure ALL that guy does is write. Has he even stopped to take a dump since 1974?). Maybe it's enough to say that I believe I can be creative on the page at least fairly regularly, and that posting on this space is my weekly dose of fiber to keep things moving. (Man, I really went too far with the whole poop analogy. Apologies to Stephen King.)
So, here's to the Slog. And whatever your Slog is, just keep at it. Day drinking helps. Talk soon.
Lar
