When I was twelve-going-on-thirteen, my teacher assigned each student the task of producing an entire record album (minus the vinyl and the music). We were to write the lyrics to ten songs, then design and produce the interior sleeve, the album label and the cover. The songs could be about any subject, but, since these were the days of theme albums, a theme was encouraged.

I loved this project. I got totally into it. I was very serious about poetry at that age, and I was excited to have an excuse to do “research” in my older sister’s room, where she kept her extensive record collection. Unfortunately, I don’t have the finished product any more, but I do remember certain details vividly, and the one most relevant to this post is my chosen theme, which was… ahem… Death. Yup. Free to choose any theme life offered, I chose to write ten songs about Death, including one about abortion and one about suicide. (And people think today’s teens are in trouble.) I can’t remember the other eight and honestly, at this moment, I’m not sure I want to. (Honestly, at this moment, I am stunned, not only that there were eight more, but also that my teacher didn’t convene some kind of crisis intervention on my behalf. But that’s another matter.) For the cover, I spray-painted cardboard all black except for a white triangle in the middle, and for the interior sleeve I went, surprise, surprise, with all white, handwriting the lyrics to my masterpieces exclusively in lower-case letters, in black ink of course. Yowza.

This uplifting album of mine came to mind recently when I read an essay by Tracy Chevalier about her “dispiriting” experience judging short stories for the Bridport Prize this year. Underlying the themes of many of them, she wrote, was “a persistent attempt to make sense of death.” She reflected:

Fair enough, I thought at the time; but as the weeks have gone by, I’ve wondered: what about happiness? Happiness is a great, unexplained mystery, no? I suppose it’s not an event, but it is an experience, and maybe I’m off my rocker here, but I do think it happens to everyone, even the most miserable person, at least once, in some small way. Moreover, happiness is an almost universally desired state. The pursuit of it is acknowledged as an inalienable right in the U.S. Declaration of Independence for God sakes, and it ranks right up there with Life and Liberty. Surely happiness – both its absence and its presence – is an essential element of being human. So why aren’t book shops bursting with happy stories?

It could be simply that Chevalier is wrong. Indeed, in my experience, most writers aren’t using writing to understand those subjects with which we struggle, but struggling with writing to articulate just what it is we know. Given this, and the fairly well-established fact that most writers are miserable so-and-sos – recluses, for example, or people who stick their heads in ovens, drink themselves to death, wade into rising rivers or simply pass days, weeks, months, years doing battle with depression – and it is perhaps not so surprising that most stories are a little gloomy. In other words, maybe writers just don’t know enough about happiness to write convincingly about it.

Another thought is that happiness is a bit like magic, and that when it comes right down to it, writers are a little afraid of it. Maybe we are a little superstitious, or maybe we shy away from happiness because we sense that writing about it might diminish it in some way, as if happiness is like a balloon – probe it and it just might pop, or like a joke – explain it and watch how quickly it falls flat.

Maybe happiness lacks the dramatic tension that writing demands.

Or, perhaps, the lack of happiness in literature has something to do with a reluctance in writers to stir up envy or come off as smug.

There is definitely the fact that writing about happiness without becoming saccharine, trite, sentimental, is downright difficult.

There is also the fact that writing, like reading, is a very private, very quiet act, and so lends itself especially well to exploring experiences and emotions that embarrass, humble, hurt, perplex and worry us – emotions and experiences that is, which most people would prefer to explore in private. I, for one, enjoy sad stories, and I think it is primarily for this reason. There is so much room for feeling in the reading space, and so much safety. Also, as a reader, you can take strong emotions on board at your own pace, pausing when things get too heavy then plunging in again when you feel ready. Happiness however, is a public affair. A vibrant affair. It is like eating, an experience that is almost always richer and more satisfying when shared. Happiness lends itself well to dance, film, music. Happiness demands movement, sound and color.

However, with all that noted, I am happy to also observe that many writers are capable of writing about happiness. For example, the most memorable happy scene I’ve ever read takes place in Anna Karenina (a story hardly known for happiness, I know). The scene occurs about a third of the way through the novel (Part IV, Chapter XIII, in case you are interested), when Levin and Kitty at last are able to admit to each other that they are in love. They are at a party, and they use chalk to write private notes to each other in code. It is very sweet, and, as a way of making up for my preteen album of gloom, I’ve decided to offer just a bit of it as the end of this post -

Ah, love.