Don't come around here no more?

Last night, after sitting at my laptop to outline a potential story and instead playing a couple dozen games of computer pinball, I realized that I have a sort of writer's block that's new to me.

All my best essays, my most profound and deep (yes, I find my own essays profound and deep), have been written while I was depressed, in a mild funk or just experiencing a general malaise. "Circle," for instance, is just about the darkest I've ever gone.

An essay I wrote for my writing class, which started a couple weeks ago, dealt with my teenage thoughts of suicide, and it was met with all sorts of praise.

When I'm happy, I feel like the quality's not there in my writing. When I try to branch out and write fiction (which I've been trying to focus my attention on for the weeks that I've been gone from here), I feel like the words aren't coming because they're not supposed to come that way. When I write fiction, I feel out-of-my-element. I feel like a fake.

It's not yet working the way I want it to work. I need to find the way to make it work.

Of course, there's something else going on.

I haven't felt like writing much lately. I haven't felt like bitching much lately. I haven't felt like using the blog to vent about personal slights and injustices and bitter, little observations. I haven't had fun Kacoon stories to tell. I haven't had to worry about never finding love or talk about how bad being alone on Valentine's Day is.

Because I'm in love. Really in love. Really, really, really in love. Like Cupid-knocked-me-upside-the-head in love. I'm secure enough to know that this relationship is real and serious. And I'm all in it. I'm all with the flower-buying. The afternoon naps. The cozy snuggling. The saccharine silliness.

Yesterday, I bought him veggie burgers.

Then, eager to do something for us in my clean kitchen, I made a chocolate layer cake. Devil's food. I didn't know how to properly layer it, so the top layer fell apart while I was frosting it. The cake looks like it exploded.

I called him about it, and we laughed.

Those of you in-the-know know about my relationship already. I don't really want to talk about it here, for I like the idea that I have something private, something that belongs to me.

Besides, I have more than myself to consider in regard to my relationship, so I'm going to do that.

I love him. I love him terrible. I love, love, love him.

But, beyond my happiness, I sorta have an irksome new lesson to learn.

How can I - the supposed former perpetual victim drowning in his own issues - write now that I'm happy?

I can't and won't sacrifice my happiness. Maybe, though, I can write around it.

So, to keep up with the writing and to keep up with "my voice," I'm going to use the blog as a tool. It'll help me keep up with the writing practice, anyway.