It's friday (again) and another week is passing without me writing any further word in the bestselling novel that is my story. There's something to say about creativity and happiness: they don't work well together i reckon, because in times of being neither high nor low in spirit i just can't summon the drive to write. So i need the drama to have ideas, that's just great!
Why is it that an artist in misery creates much better things than someone who is deeply content? Take Goethe for example. The guy was in so much pain over his unrequited love he not only brought the most heartbreaking and beautiful written words onto paper, he seemed to like his misery to the point where he himself wallowed in it with delight. Unfortunately i'm not like that. I wish I was! Wanting to be miserable is nothing i aspire to do.
I have to find another way!