has my life gotten too good for me to write?

In order to tell the story I want to, I have to tell a different one first.

A long time ago there was a TV show, called "Love, American Style".

The show was an anthology, each week presenting a different story about the perils and joys of being in love.

And on this show there was an episode where a singer known for his sad songs about heartbreak and loneliness found a girl, and then discovered he couldn't write sad songs, or indeed any songs.

I believe something like that has happened to me. As a kid, and even for most of my adulthood, going through my eventful life, I escaped into my imagination, and all the stories I have written and published here ultimately have their origin in those flights of fancy.

But these days, my life has settled down.

I successfully transitioned (well everything but surgery, but ah well), I got acceptance from my mother and tolerance from everybody else, and I believe I have made much progress in processing my memories of the nasty events of my past.

And my stories have simply stopped.

I have a half dozen started idea, but I haven't even looked at them since the calenderer turned to 2023, and I have no real hope of progressing them

I'm just not miserable enough to write.

Is this a good thing? Maybe. I mean it is nice to have a little less stress, but I LIKED being able to write, and if its gone for good, I am going to miss it.

Ah, well.