I Wanted To Be A Happy Writer
By: Reuben Salsa
Tags: Writing, Salsa, The Bad Influence, Self, Happy

I Wanted To Be A Happy Writer

Image screenshot from Pinterest

I’ve tried. Countless times. I‘ve tried to write something, anything, that would beam with positivity. I’ve wanted to make someone’s day by gentle coaxing and encouragement rather than the white-hot rage of injustice.

I recently watched a Netflix program that featured Trent Reznor. He was walking through a song on his second album called ‘Hurt’. It’s a great tune full of resentment and pain. It comes from a dark place and one in which Trent wasn’t willing to expand upon. And then they played the Johnny Cash cover.

Cash covered the song as he was slowly dying from cancer. In the video, he’s frail and looking back on life. The song takes on a whole different meaning. A code for his legacy with the piano thumping out every last heartbeat of his life. I have serious issues listening and viewing this version. Without fail, it brings tears to my eyes and I can’t help but think of my own Dad passing away from cancer.

The emotional journey.

There are days I wonder if I could ever be happy. Dark days when nothing goes to plan. Misery beckons round every corner. Nothing can cheer me up as I disappear into my self-loathing for the day. On days like that, it’s hard to muster the energy to write or to go to work and do my full-time job. It’s even harder to face my children with a big smile and send them off for the day happy and content.

It’s an odd day. Nothing more than that. I don’t suffer from depression. I’ve never needed medication. It’s a singular long day where getting out of bed is the hardest obstacle I’ll face. An odd day that seeps into my writing. Permeates the words. Brings the page down with its relentless nihilism.

Who wants to read that?

I want to be a happy writer but fear that anything I write will never make people happy. There are no funny tales on days like this. Of course, one of the issues to never writing about happiness is, I’m never exposed to happy writing. I don’t seek out comedic prose. I’m not exposed to uplifting stories. The problem really does begin and end with me.

What if I started to read nothing but self-help and inspiring storytelling? Would that take hold within my work? Can I train myself into becoming a happy writer? Or would that be a false dichotomy of who I am? Here’s the real me and this piece of writing is the fake bullshit I’ve put out because people love reading this mindless crap that makes their day better.

I dislike reading happy, inspiring journeys. They bore me. The ‘Good to Great to Unstoppable Bollocks of Positivity’ ’ or ‘The 1000x Rule To Live Your Best Life of Pretentious Happiness’. I would rather be depressed than take the perma-tan sunshine Prozac of those literary gems.

I probably need some self-help.

But here’s the deal. By writing anti-jocular, non-jovial, and mildly depressing stories, I can find release. It helps me to debug. It’s cathartic for me to spill my feelings and words onto a page. I need to write upsetting, painful, and dispiriting articles in order to cleanse me. I can’t help it. I need to vomit these words out. A personal purge to make me feel happy again.

Already Johnny Cash has become a distant memory.

Happiness is an illusion in my writing and one that I don’t find easy to write or that I’m even comfortable writing. Maybe one day I’ll swallow some Happy Pills and inspire a generation to be less inward-looking and brim with positivity.

Until then, thank you for reading.

xxx