Thursday, August 9, 2007

A Synaptical Misfire

I never write when I'm happy.

I just realized this tonight. Or maybe, I was finally able to admit to myself tonight that I never feel eloquent or empowered when life is running smooth. I really don't think I ever wanted to admit that when I'm upset about something, I feel the most articulate. (Articulate is not to be confused with creative, contemplative, or inspired.) What writer ever wants to admit that to be a success, he or she would have to lead a fairly miserable life full of unrequited love, waffling faith, and broken relationships?

I feel that I have always envied writers who could write when they're happy. They must exist, but at this moment, I cannot think of one. John Donne - fairly miserable/spiritually torn: Emily Dickinson - depressed/suicidal: Hemingway needs no explanation, and, well, Chuck Palahniuk, in all his brilliant prose, he doesn't write about a single healthy heterosexual relationship. Maybe, perhaps, there is something embedded in the synaptical relay of an author or poet that runs a supercharged electrical signal to the cerebral cortex and then WaBam! you've got yourself a Pulitzer. Or maybe, I'm the one who is disillusioned about the concept of writing.

It's not that I'm particularly unhappy at this moment - quite the contrary actually: I'm happier, generally speaking, than I have been in months, but my heart aches tonight. My soul is filled with prayers tonight for many people, some of whom might not want me specifically to be praying for them: the woman who yelled at me at work today, and who I turn, made cry because of my silence; the lovers who I can't completely disconnect myself from; the friend who I can't feel slightly abandoned by - and all the people who probably do want my prayers - my soul aches and my fingers type because of that damn synaptical relay.

Maybe it isn't the plight of the author/blogger/thinker to be miserable. Maybe we just feel things and are moved to action when we see a deficit. Maybe we let our fingers rest long enough when life is balanced to enjoy the moment and maybe we use writing as a means to get past the unspeakable.