As a kid, one of my favorite books was The Penguin that Hated the Cold, the story of, strangely enough, a penguin who hated the cold.
In the conditions where other penguins thrived, Pablo the penguin was miserable.
I was reading Mary’s blog the other day where she says “Like many creative sorts I am at my best when I’m suffering from some kind of angst.”
Like Pablo, I fail to thrive where the others of my kind do. Angst makes what talent I have shrivel up like a flea exposed to diatomaceous earth.
I need something resembling peace when I write. I need something resembling joy.
Last night, I had dinner with my brother-in-law’s dad who called me his favorite poet. Never has that word felt less apt than now.
Strangely, I had finally gotten to the point where I was comfortable saying “I am a poet.”
I think that there are a lot of writers who write best in retrospect–after they’ve worked out the conflict, or time enough has passed that the pain isn’t as debilitating (often well after the fact). My bet is, you are one of these people.