F*ck all those Feely Feelings

I recently joined several writers’ groups to, you know, surround myself with like-minded people to keep me inspired and focused. I love the exchange of ideas and the genuine, heartfelt sharing that happens in some of those groups, but I’ve got to tell you, enough with the angst already.

Don’t get me wrong. It served a purpose for a while. My writing became almost therapeutic for a bit. It was nice to feel comfortable being sad for a minute. I’d gone through a tough break up and needed to get some stuff out, but just like with the guy, I’m ready to give it all the middle finger and move on.

I began to wonder if maybe some writers get stuck in the dark side of the emotional depth required to draw a good storyline. I get it. Thoreau. Hemingway. Plath. The world is full of books—many of them successful—that are filled with Weltschmerz. That’s just not the kind of binding my heart longs to wander into, fluff the pillows, and lean into for a while.

In real life, I’m edgy. I’m crude. I laugh at inappropriate things. But I found myself wallowing down by the reflection pool for just a little too long while life was throwing a party down the block.

I’m done. I’m not going to get comfortable with sadness and feeling all the feelings anymore because that’s just not who I am.

F*ck them. I’m ready to live again.

So if you notice a lift in my voice, a bounce to my step, this is why. I’m in love again—I’m in love with my life. I always have been, actually. Some days are just harder than others, and while it’s good to live in complete authenticity during those dump days, we don’t have to get stuck there.

And for those of us who are writers, for gosh sake, get over that shit when it’s time. For me, it’s time.