My writing improves when I’m sad. There’s just something about being dejected that benefits prose.
I guess it’s honesty. All writing should aim to be true, and I drop pretensions when I’m sad. Desperation makes me impolite, curt, and blunt.
Also, Nihilism can come across as cool. By cool I mean literally cold, lacking in warmth. We associate aloofness with power.
Like those videos of small animals who don’t flinch when they’re attacked by larger beasts. Invariably, the bigger animal recoils. Stillness exudes power—and sadness makes one still, disaffected.
(Rare footage of a sensitive young man interacting with people):
We also tend to think that pessimistic people, people who say the quiet part out loud, are smarter. The truth is often hard to bear, and we instinctively associate discomfort with truth.
But these are fallacies. Sad people aren’t necessarily powerful or more truthful.
I want you to know—whoever you may be—that I am actually very, very happy. And I’m not saying this just to reassure you, although I am also reassuring you.
I’m saying this in my truthful, cynical voice: I have the best life I could ever wish for. Even my stupid disease has been healing.
Lulica always tells me (as girlfriends often do) not to resist sadness, but to let it wash through me.
I think there’s a middle ground here. I shouldn’t wallow in desperation, but I shouldn’t deny myself some sadness either.
I often say that I would prefer to try and fail than to never try. But that’s not the life I’ve been living—in real life, I try, I fail, and I eventually succeed.
