Becalmed

And now, a few thoughts about inspiration. 

     Is distress a motivator? Is it easier to be creative under the weight of unhappiness, anxiety, or that nibbling whisper of self-doubt?

     Is happiness incompatible with bursts of productivity? That doesn't seem likely, and yet must be the explanation for my lack of output in the recent weeks. I have been blessed with some of the most relaxing, stress-free times of my life lately, in which I am released from the vague, non-specific apprehension which habitually hovers at the periphery of my consciousness. That nearly perfect state which led even my husband to note that he thought I was happier than I had been in a long time. I must agree, and don't take this gift of peace of mind lightly. This time was reserved for my opportunity to delve down a path of career diversion, to see whether any other than me is interested in anything I have to write. So why is it so hard?

    Severe pressure results in flawless diamonds; war produces timeless literature; heartbreak yields transcendent poetry; misery and madness gave us Edgar Allen Poe, among others. So what does contentedness grant? Rainbows and unicorns do not make for compelling reading. No one wants to peek inside a happy life - it's the challenges that bring out our inner schadenfreude. Makes us feel better, does it not, when we aren't the only unhappy ones?
     
     The challenge of this time will be to translate my comfort level into strength. To take power from my completeness, and propel it into creativity. This is my commitment to mobilize domestic serenity into professional satisfaction. I will do my best to make it entertaining. Maybe not a diamond; but better than brass.