I've often lamented that I do a crappy job of writing when I'm in a good mood. I'll leave it up to the readers to decide for themselves whether my mood is irrelevant to the crappiness of my writing. I happen to think that it's highly relevant.

Good moods lead to crappy writing.

Bad moods lead to not so crappy writing.

Most of the time, anyway. But maybe not all the time.

Like, I was reading through some old stuff today, and I ran across an entry I wrote a little over two years ago. On one of those rare days, back then, in which I found myself in a good mood.

I like this entry. I think I did a good job with it. It's short and to the point.

gamut

You know what I like about my life right now?

I like the fact that, for the first time that I can remember, I seem to have the entire gamut of emotions at my beck and call.

This is really pretty cool, this place that I find myself in. Even though I complain about it what seems like all the fucking time.

Q: How do you know Dave is complaining about something?

A: Because he's awake.

Here's a little challenge for you. Pick an emotion. Give me a minute, and I can be experiencing that emotion.

Some are easier than others, of course. Some I might even call difficult. But not impossible.

A friend of mine asked me today if I ever felt hate. That's actually one of the tough ones for me. But I can do it. I have to reach far back - years and years - into my past, and think about things that I'd rather not think about, but I can do it. If I'm completely honest with myself, then I have to admit that I do hate her for what she did, over and over and over and over and over and over. Without remorse. Without anything that could even be remotely considered as being anything similar to regret. With nothing but pure selfishness. I hate that fucking whore.

Yes, I do hate her. For who she is, and for the coward that she turned me into.

Love, the one emotion that I always figured was impossible for me to feel - that's the one that turned out to be the easiest of all. That's the one that I live with, that's a part of me, that I cannot completely shake even when I want to do so. I try to run from it, and I try to hide from it, and I try to deny that I ever felt it. Feel it. But there's no use running, or hiding, or denying. It always catches up. It always finds me. It always stands right in front of me and does a little dance that always makes me laugh. This is what I feel when I let my mind and my heart relax and stop trying to escape the inescapable. That such a person can exist in this world. It's just so amazing to me. She is just so amazing to me.

I do love her. For who she is, and for the hopeful idiot that she turned me into.

And, between those two emotions, and between those two very different women, I have the full range of emotion available to me.

Like I said, it's pretty cool.

So, I can write when I'm happy. Which begs the question, Why don't I hardly ever fucking do it?

I think it's because when life sucks, I turn away from it, and when I turn away from life I turn toward my writing. But, when I'm happy with my life, I want to experience it, not write about it.

That's my theory, anyway.