The problem is that I'm too happy.

For whatever reason, creativity seems to flow in times of struggle.

When the painter is sad, she paints canvas after canvas of angry reds, weepy blues and bleak blacks.

When the song writer is frustrated, he pounds on the piano, he fills his notebook with new phrases and he pours his soul into a song.

When the writer is lonely, her pen moves swiftly and a never-ceasing string of the most beautifully combined words flows from her like ...

And then the writer gets stuck. Because she isn't lonely. She's actually quite the opposite.

She's very happy. Her life is happy. Everything around her is happy.

Love does wonderful things to a person. And horrible things to that person's writing time!

But this writer is fine with that. Maybe I'll stub my toe this week and come up with something witty.