Writing Happy – Jasper Kerkau

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In my next life I want to write happy, funny stories of weekends that went off without a hitch, photos of back-slapping with funny hats and exotic drinks. I will have a happy, quirky blog chronicling my life of leisure and success. I can’t write those stories, it isn’t my life, and if it were, I wouldn’t be able to write about it. My writing comes from dark places of hunger and pain. I find words peaking out of restroom in the middle of the night, face pressed against the cold, glossy door. Gasping for air, fearful of shadows. There are no words to be captured in neatly set tables, left-overs and urbane exchanges dumped in the trash; my words are born of starvation. I sat in front of the computer for ten years in my martial home, patting my protruding belly, waiting for something profound to say. Nothing. Blinking cursor on blank document. It is pain that drives me, wakes me up in the middle of the night, sending me under the bed with pen and paper to scribble out secret passages detailing stinging fear and loss. I waited on inspiration for a decade in a happy house, and it always managed to sneak out the side door gracefully, leaving disappearing footprints. With each new notch I find in my belt, I find out more about myself. I discover illicit secrets and explosions of ecstatic emotion that give way to words falling out of mind, through fingers, into the world.

Jasper Kerkau (8/14/16)

Author: jasperkerkauwriting

I am trying to write myself out of the darkness.

2 thoughts on “Writing Happy – Jasper Kerkau”

  1. I saw a blog post somewhere (idk where, I didn’t care to click follow) where the person was going on about how they refuse to write about misery and sadness, that it made no sense to focus on pessimism, or whatever, in the name of finding art, or beauty. And then some flowery stuff and peaches, and 100 likes and dozens of comments gushing about how too often ‘artists’ and ‘writers’ focus on depressing topics. WHY IS The Old Man and The Sea so beautiful? Sure, I’d love to write about flowers and fancy times with friends, but that’s not where you find beauty.
    You put it perfectly – a protruding belly and nothing to write.

    Like

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