There is always disagreement in whether or not emotional turmoil makes the artist. Do drinking and drugs, heartbreak and anguish, fuel the words? Is it the pure act of writing consistently that develops the skill to make pretend?
I want to write something happy, I want to feed the words inside of me chocolate and pistachio gelato until they come out to play. I want the letters to trickle together until they sound like laughter. I wish I could make a sentence taste sweet. I wish I could write a book that people wanted to devour.