Can You Write Well When You're Happy?

in mid-December, a slow reflection

I’m still in Taiwan, which feels more and more like a second home after returning to the island again and again in my forty years of life. I’ve been here for approximately two-and-a-half weeks now, which is considered both a lengthy stay and a stretch of time that’s whipped right by. These days, I’ve been concentrating on drafting and revising the chunk of my novel that’s due in early January—a process that abruptly felt more urgent when an email from my editor popped into my inbox, asking how the work is going and whether I think I’ll meet my deadline.

I waited to write back, both because I’m not swift with email replies, and because I wasn’t sure about the answer. Could I finish a solid version of Part Two by early January? My pessimism/optimism level, which seesaws violently depending on infinite variables, holds the answer. I’ve been spending hours every day hammering away at the manuscript. I’ve been fortunate to acquire a paperback copy of Beloved (a significant influence on the new book) from the Taipei Library, and my mum helped me to order a more affordable version of my dear Qwerkywriter keyboard, which I was not able to bring with me; both things have accelerated my progress. And I stopped banging my head against the edits of Part One, which was boring me to the point where I began to wonder whether the entire project was dull as dirt—the answer being that I’ve reworked Part One too much, and it was time to move on.

When I do live events, I’m often asked about the fact that I’m both a fiction and nonfiction writer—usually something along the lines of, “How do you know what form in which you’ll write something?” or “What different processes do you use for each?” As someone who accidentally tripped into the nonfiction genre, I’m far more used to doing exactly this: hours at a keyboard, trying to see into the hazy future of my characters. Picturing how someone’s body moves when someone they fear enters the room.

I became furious about something yesterday and was having trouble dealing with it; I ended up putting the anger into my protagonist’s current scene. This is why I usually say I put all my real secrets into my fiction. It’s the stuff I can bear to tell you face-to-face that I write essays about.

I did end up saying that I think I might be able to finish Part Two by the deadline. After all, I’m spoiled rotten here: the fruit is exquisite (see the photo of two washed-and-cut wax apples below—my favorite fruits in the world, and not available in the United States); I have cheap and delicious meals to eat; I get to watch movies with my mum when I’m not working (I saw Aftersun recently and loved it). I should be able to write well enough under these circumstances. I say this out of the side of my mouth, but I’ve also been happier here than I’ve been in a long time. I’m accustomed to grasping filaments of happiness when they appear, and they melt like the cotton candy that the raccoon in the GIF tries to wash in the river. But right now, I’ve been happy for long stretches of time. It’s unfamiliar and terrific.

Another question I’m often asked is whether mental illness is a creativity boost. In my experience, the answer is generally no: if I’m struggling and suffering with torment, trying to write is the last thing on my mind. Being happy here just means that I mine the memories of unhappiness when I need them—because they’re still there, and every cell of my self remembers them.

The novel I’m writing is, in so many ways, a difficult one, and certainly the hardest book I’ve written. I struggled mightily with it when I was working on the book in Cassis last year; I had to talk to my therapist every day, and she was afraid that I’d have to leave or wind up in a French psychiatric ward. There were days when she told me I should not work on the book because my mind was too fragile for it—I somehow assigned myself a literary project that is both retraumatizing and highly challenging for multiple other reasons. I don’t know why I embarked on this wild ride, exactly, but I’m glad that I had a good writing day today. And I’m glad that I’m happy. I hope that you are, too. (Or as happy as is possible, these days. Even a filament is beautiful in the darkness.)

Meet Amelia!

We recently had the amazing opportunity to have an Academy graduate tell us about her experience with The Unexpected Shape Writing Academy. The Academy is an online writing school created to bolster the voices of the ambitious unheard, providing a self-paced curriculum for writers (from pre-writing to writing to publication) and a kind-hearted community.

Here's her story. And if you're at all interested in joining an online writing academy created for ambitious writers living with limitations, we'd love to have you. Check out more information about our school at unexpectedshapeacademy.com.

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I was initially drawn to the Academy for two reasons: Esmé’s writing (The Collected Schizophrenias remains the best nonfiction book on mental illness I’ve ever read), and Esmé’s approach to working with disabilities and limitations. As a congenitally disabled person with a significant mental illness, her approach was deeply helpful and welcome.

My actual experience has more than met my expectations; Esmé is a knowledgeable and compassionate teacher and chooses amazing guest lectures. I’ve learned something valuable from every class. The community I am forming with my cohort is amazing as well. When Esmé spoke about the importance of treating those who have harmed you with empathy in your writing about them, it blew my mind in the best way.

I think the most important thing I’ve learned and continue to learn is to trust myself and forgive myself, which is a daily struggle I have with my writing. Esme has encouraged me to treat myself with more kindness and compassion.

Eula Biss discussing the part of her process where she feels deeply uncertain about what she is writing about was powerful and validating to hear. I legitimately beloved that feeling uncertainty, especially for long periods of time, meant that I was doing something wrong. Learning that writing is difficult and messy for everyone, including experienced writers, was a real game changer for me.

I see writing as a much more organic and lengthy process now then I saw it as before the Academy. I am more at peace with my writing and career goals taking the time they will take. I feel better equipped to manage the ebbs and flows of the writing (and publishing) process.

*For complex reasons, we needed not to use her real name. She is a real person, and these are her real answers. ❤️💕