Friday, December 12, 2008
I know. I know. This time of the year is never good for me, no matter how hard I try. A self-imposed lecture on the myriad number of blessings I have (good health, great family, excellent friends, roof over my head, food to eat, etc.) never seems to make an impact except for making me feel guilty for having them in the first place.
Many people suffer from the winter blues and goodness knows that here in the great frozen Midwest, I'd be excused if such were the case with me, but it's not. My mother's birthday is the week before Christmas and since my last post revealed that she's no longer with me, you'll understand that it's the time of year that I miss her most. My best friend, also deceased, would have celebrated her forty-seventh birthday this Christmas Eve. So, I'll be in a dire mood for the next few weeks, working hard to lift myself from the doldrums and not get mired in misery.
When I was young (er) I wrote dreadful poetry or stories as an outlet for my angst and I guess some old habits die hard. Hard enough, anyway because I laid out an entirely new story, plot, GMC and suitably horrible ending for hero and heroine, all in the space of a few hours. All this on the strength of transferring my black mood from my mind onto paper. I tried to think of any notable authors who writes sorrowful tales where no one is ever really happy and the endings are sad. Then I realized that there are plenty of talented and noteworthy authors who write stories exactly like that , but the work isn't considered romance.
Like the Scarlet Letter. That's a pretty sad story wrapped around an awful conclusion and I'm sure I could come up with many others but for now, I'll ponder this particular work from Nathaniel Hawthorne. Wikipedia says that The Scarlet Letter was considered Hawthorne's magnum opus. So perhaps instead of trying to lift my black mood, I should mine it for literary achievement since I seem to be lacking the cheerfulness needed to write a proper romance.