John Mayer was right, darn it.
Last year in January, he wrote an article about how he’s worried Chris Martin of Coldplay might not be able to write good songs anymore because of his state of happiness, what with being married to Gwynnie and the arrival of that bundle of joy, Apple…
What Mayer was trying to say was that happiness gives you Writer’s 
Block.
And he’s right.
I’m suffering. I’m dying here.
Every time I turn on my PC to continue with my novel, or every time I take out my pen to jot down a poem, my mind goes blank and I end up editing lines in my novel, or jotting down nursery rhymes instead of poems.
The thing is, happiness produces crappy work. Yeah, sure, it inspires some, but others like me end up with verses about sunshine and rainbows and butterflies and unicorns. And you don’t wanna read those unless you’re a snot-nosed five year old kid in kindergarten who thinks Baa Baa Black Sheep is the greatest song in the world.
I’m not complaining about my state of happiness, though. I like being happy. But it’s not so fun when I’m creativity-drained. This isn’t a win-win situation. I’m either happy and producing rubbish; or sad/angry/upset and creating art.
Complain all you want, but I’d rather choose the former.
This may be my defence statement, just in case you lot read something I write that might be about how wonderful muffins are. But there’s another reason why I’m writing this entry. People with Writer’s Block need to write regardless, so here I am, writing. (Hey, this entry wasn’t so pointless after all. I threw in a little tip there.)
And hey, I think I’m slowly climbing over this darned obstacle. Bear with me, hun.
SPECIMEN #1.0: Example of Happy Poetry.
Lick your shoes
Pick your ears
Roll down a hill
But don’t get ill.
Ignore our crabinness
Join in our silliness
Put us to sleep
And we’ll make you weep.
Whatever, whatever
The song of whatever
Whatever, whatever
Innit?
Poke your eye
Clean your nose
Roll down a hill
And halfway freeze still…
Ignore our crabbiness
Join in our silliness
True friends are
The best people to annoy.
Whatever, whatever
The song of whatever
Whatever, whatever
Do you know wot I mean?
Life’s like a great bucket
Of balding wood shavings.
I absolutely love this poem. I wrote it with Rojak back when I was a happy 15 year old teen, having just found my soul friends. But see kids, too much of a good thing is never good. As novel as this poem is, it wouldn’t be so good if I kept producing works such as these.
Rolling Down a Hill. Shurfa / Zawiyah / Ghazali / Tex/ Lingling; ©2003. All rights reserved.
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