Angst in a file

Years ago, at a particularly tough time, with finances off the rail and the demands of family over the top, I wrote a short story, which became a 82,000 word book,  about a women who disappeared, (willingly), while leaving no clues behind as to where she went. I actually figured out a way to head out of Dodge and make a new life, leaving my adored children and once in a lifetime husband behind.

Writing the story was great therapy; I was able to go without going. It was like writing a scathing letter to your mother-in-law and then tearing it up.  The story was pretty good and the emotional dump was soulfully needed but I never did anything with it. It’s buried somewhere in my computer. The book however, neatly tucked into its manila folder, haunts me from the bottom shelf of a bookcase. It reminds me of how despair can cook a novel that once seemed tasty but has gone rancid over time.

My point is that, over the course of this thing I call writing, as a response to life’s travails, I’ve murdered my husband, sold out my parents, burned down a co-workers house and abandoned my children. Those stories were never saved anywhere. I live happily ever after at home with a husband of many, MANY, years and with children, on their own, but close to the nest.  I am privileged and in a very good place. I wonder if writing happy stories makes you happier.

Do you write your angst away?