Pessimism and Happiness

“Whoever said that hope springs eternal is full of shit.”

That’s the opening line of my version of the Great American Novel.

I find it strange that I’ve known my entire life (well, at least as early as 8th grade), that I’ve wanted to write, but it took me over 40 years to realize I needed to write.

The need has been lying there, buried under boredom and bullshit, for my entire adult life.  Once I committed to a paltry 100 words a day, the flood gates opened.  Whether I have a good idea, no idea, another idea, whatever, it comes.  I wake up in the middle of the night with the next scene, or the need to find my old flash drive that had my fiction class short stories in it.  Or an entirely new story.

The novel itself is plodding. It’s a fun place to be, mostly, and not any particular genre.  But the writing is just coming, and I realize that I’ve finally found–to my chagrin of using a horrible cliche–my happy place.

I have a sense of balance I didn’t have before.  Things don’t bother me like they did.  Unimportant things slide, and priorities rearrange as if by magic.

It’s a good place to be.

Despite totally overdoing my Christmas budget (Saving money? Who wants to do that?) breaking my (I’ll just install this plug in, wait, where’d my admin page go?), and damp temperatures doing very mean things to my joints, right here, right now is a very good place to be.

I even started a goofy little word count map, full of doodles and dates.

I’ll post it when I have a semi-decent word count.


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