On writing.

Say hello to my mother, everyone!

She's back reading this website, although she complains that I don't write much here. And it's true, I don't. I used to keep a more detailed diary at Diaryland, where I talked about the shoes and hats I was buying, what flavour ice-cream I ate that day, and so on. I think she enjoyed keeping up with me through that. But I put a password on it a long time ago because I wanted it to be an exclusive site "just for friends." One day, I stopped writing there and eventually forgot what my password is. But it's still there and I could easily look up the password if I felt like it, but so far I don't feel like it.

Websites are a great place to practice writing. And writing is a great way to explore thoughts and feelings. As much as I can, I try to do that on these blogs. But I'm rather happy with my life; even during those moments I get temporarily saddened by something, I'm generally happy. And, strangely, it's hard to write about happy. It's easier to write about angry, or sad.

I don't think I've read a single book, fiction or non, that's about happy. There's always a sad, then panic, then desperation and then more sad. Or sad, panic, desperation, conflict and then a quiet wistfulness. Quiet wistfulness is not the same as happy.