Writing Happiness: Why It’s Worth It to Look on the Bright Side of Stories

Seven years ago, I was sitting in a writing workshop getting the kind of feedback I dreaded…The workshop leader spoke of how every novel she’d written had come from her obsessions. Something slipped in me when she said this. It was what I most feared: my novel wasn’t working, my writing wasn’t working, because it didn’t stem from the grief and despair that had fueled my first two novels. I’d written a third book, but when an agent I respected rejected it, saying, “I just don’t care enough about the main character” my first reaction was, I don’t either . I suspected I needed to delve deeper into her trauma, but I couldn’t. I was tired of writing about grief. * The workshop leader began asking questions about my personal life in an attempt, she explained, to get to the heart of my story. But I don’t want to write about my life , I thought helplessly, even as she was asking, “Do you have children?” and I was shaking my head no, and she was asking why not. I mentioned my nephews who had both died of a genetic disease. The writer asked their names, how old they’d been when they died— seven, fifteen . “It’s just…I’ve written about them,” I said meekly. “Numerous essays, my second novel.” I didn’t want to believe that the best writing had to come from what was darkest in us, even though my own writing always had. The writer moved on. Digging, excavating, plundering. How many times had I been married? Shame rippled through me. “Four times,” I whispered. The writer sat back, eyebrow raised. The clink of a shovel hitting something solid. Why had I gotten divorced? Who initiated the divorces? My shirt was sticking to my back, my throat dry. The questions kept coming. “This is all material,” the writer reminded us. “We’re looking for the story.” I stared at pages of the novel I’d expected to workshop, and felt like a fool. An hour passed. By this time, I was crying. One of the women, eyes welling—with sympathy maybe, […]

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