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The accusation: I only write when I’m pissed off; or upset. The verdict: almost 100% guilty.

But they do say writers have a propensity for gloominess, broodiness, ennui and depression, don’t they? Or maybe it’s the other way round – writers find an outlet for these deep, dark feelings through their words.

Then there’s the fact that making your happiness public – on blogs, in articles, in books – is seen as shameless bragging. When there’s so much pointless suffering in the world and so many serious subject to deal with, how do you even dare give your insignificant moments of joy so much emotional and intellectual real estate? As if you should only allow yourself to feel happiness once all of the world’s problems are solved and put to rest.

So yes, I mostly write when I’m angry, frustrated or just sad. Partly because it drives me to write, to express myself in some form, especially when I don’t have any other way of speaking out. Partly because I’m afraid of sounding braggy or simply common and uninteresting if I start penning in my moments of joy and serenity.

The disconcerting aspect of this is lately I’ve been afraid of being judged for describing the not-so-pink-and-fluffy sides of my life, or for even hinting at them. I can almost hear it – “Oh, man! She’s complaining and whining again!”. Self pity? No, not at all. But worried by the fact that I’m fighting writer’s block again. Concerned I may not be cut out to be an honest-to-God writer.

No, this is not a happy post. Sorry.

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