Thinking about writing.

Happy places.

Hand on keyboard, cats nearby, coffee cup, iMac

In spite of (or maybe because of) being clinically depressed for most of my life, I have sought and (and, fortunately, found) a lot of happy places. It’s these places we find that keep us together when the not-so-happy things (work, grief, flashers, trolls, bullies, liars) try to drag us down. Here are some of mine:

    • In my bed with a book.
    • In the tub with a British detective show on the iPad.
    • Driving my car. It’s quick and efficient and a little battered and usually grimy. It gets me.
    • The Alamo Drafthouse (if the movie is good and is not focused on vomiting.)
    • Any place with books: bookstores, libraries, people’s houses filled with books.
    • Quiet, empty churches that smell of incense and beeswax and the prayers of a thousand souls.
    • Mountains, rivers, lakes and streams.
    • In Albuquerque with my bestie and her family, getting lots of girl time.

But my most happiest happy place? The one that dispels all the gloom of short winter days and hot summer nights?

This one: little cat draped over my arm, big cat somewhere near, coffee with soy milk and honey, working hard on my books in spite of the very slim chance that anyone will ever read them. It’s the work that matters, not the end product. It’s the art that makes us happy.

So where’s your happy place?

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