A Writer's Dilemma

I'm no Hemingway. But I think I understand why many, if not all, of the best writers are crackpots.

In the early 1990s, a disturbed, anorexic and struggling singer-songwriter from Canada recorded an album of songs that teemed with raw existential angst--the kind that most people of any age could readily identify with. The artist's name is Alanis Morissette, and her debut album was a smash hit. Fast-forward to the present day: Alanis Morissette has had her share of fame, fortune, relatively long-lasting relationships and occasionally good health; her music, apparently lacking the anger and hatred that defined her debut album, is nowhere near as successful as before.

Not that it can be supported by facts, but my personal conclusion is that Alanis Morissette is the victim of some kind of cruel joke of Fate. It seems that in the early days, when the she-rocker was down in the dumps, her cynicism was intense enough to squeeze out a wealth of soulful material from her creative head. Ironically, when the said material fetched fame and millions of dollars for Alanis, life got good. Now there was no reason to hate the world--and therefore, no soul to be bled into her music. Simply put, the secret to Alanis Morissette's success was the lack of it. Poor Alanis, it's almost as though she's got no right to be happy!

Now, for the record, I do NOT presume to compare myself with such a gifted artist. But I would venture into saying that as a writer, I sometimes feel as though I am saddled with a somewhat similar Catch 22. From the first time I learned to write prose, I have always considered it quite self-fulfilling--even therapeutic--to compose my thoughts into a written piece. But then, as I matured, the inspiration to write became harder and harder to find. Eventually I realized that for me to churn out works that are worth sharing with another person, I have to sensitize myself to things that normally should be shrugged off as just "the way of the world." For the most part, these are the lamentable, the annoying, as well as the comendable acts of man.

Fair enough, you might say. But then the problem is there seem to be much more of the former than the latter. So ultimately, the more I engage in this self-fulfilling craft of writing, the more dissatisfied I get with the world I live in. Am I to fill my heart with hatred, just so that I can indulge in that which I enjoy most? Quite a ridiculous proposition, isn't it? One that only a sick joker like Fate can come up with.

At the end of the day, I guess it's just another balancing act that I have to perform on a daily basis; every one of us has his own, anyway. Perhaps the trick is knowing when to switch to the fault-finding "what the f@%k is happening to the world?" mode, and how to snap back into the "It's a shitty world but it's all we've got" setting.