This workshop is a conundrum because happiness is the opposite of conflict, absolutely necessary, I have always been told in any piece of fiction. You can have happiness but only at the end. Maybe a little in the beginning to show the characters have the ability to be happy but it must very soon be curtailed by some conflict or you do not have a story. The bigger and nastier the conflict, the better the story.
I put the theory to the test on some of my favorite books and sure enough, always the conflict, even if the conflict is only Mr. Darcy having too much money and position to marry the wily, tempestuous but poor Elizabeth Bennett. Most of us wouldn’t mind his conflict but a brazen young woman can always cause trouble for a man, even the most tempered.
I was quite surprised to see the advertisement for a happiness writing workshop. Looking around this conference room that is about as happy as day-old bread, I notice that only the older woman has even the slightest hint of it. The two thirty-something women look positively vicious with dissatisfaction, the two younger men oblivious and the fifty-something man like he’d rip your face off if you got near him. I am somewhere in the middle, not old enough to be happily retired with time for writing workshops and the younger age group who perhaps are just finding out how unhappy life can be. A late arrival brought a young Japanese girl who looked well-adjusted and expressed sincere sorrow over her tardiness; the street car had broken down. She was flushed and embarrassed even though the teacher assured her it was fine she hadn’t missed anything.
This workshop has far fewer students than the funny workshop and a fraction of those signed up for the Put Some Sexy In Your Writing that begins next week. It is also only two and a half days instead of five and is really just something they sandwiched between funny and sexy. What does that tell you? Sex sells, funny has a chance but happiness, what is that except a paragraph at the end of some trauma which more than ever is forsaken?
There are only eight of us and at least three will drop out leaving five of us. How do I know this? A certain percentage always do and I see three people right away who are too troubled to even begin searching for happiness. The other four, including myself, look like seekers--willing to suspend disbelief.
The introductions began and the young Japanese girl named Suki said she was happy all the time but wanted to be a fiction writer despite having a happy life with happy parents and had been told by an English teacher that she was too happy and contented to write fiction. Happiness, he told her was not the stuff of novels. No conflict, you see. She said she cultivated a romance with a troubled boy who used drugs and hated his mother. She thought she could savor misery second-hand through him and then have dark tales to tell. He dumped her she said, for someone he had more in common with: a forty-year-old druggie who hangs out on Haight Street and sells fake pot to tourists. She said she experienced a sort of unhappiness for a week but then her parents took her on an adventure vacation to Yosemite and she went right back to happy. She couldn’t help it. Now she wants to know how to use it in her writing since she doubts she can shake it.
The fifty-something guy named Daryl with a surplus of angry energy guffawed and spit water into his hand. “Oh please, please make this happiness stop,” he said a little too sarcastically, I thought. Suki looked embarrassed and bowed her head as she took her seat. I couldn’t resist my own comment: “Hang around this guy and your problem is solved.” The others laughed. Daryl glared at me and said, “You don’t look all that happy yourself, lady, not hard to figure out why.” He gave a snort and it occurred to me he looked like a pig with a snoot and pointy ears, pale pink skin and a fat middle. I ignored the comment but was on my guard. He could say what he wanted about me but he was not going to get away with rattling an innocent young girl with exquisite manners and small feet in blue suede shoes.
When it was my turn to introduce myself and state my reasons for being in this workshop, I said I’m tired of reading about the conflicts of our age: AIDs, child abuse, illness as metaphor, family nightmares of every conceivable malfunction, aging, loneliness, greed, envy and jealousy run amok, and of course alcohol and drug use. I ask, "Is it possible to become too saturated with all that is painful? How much can we absorb?" The question then needs to be asked, what do we have to write about without these topics? I added that I believed a happy spirit should be cultivated and encouraged if at all possible. At that moment I had an urge to quote from the Bible, Be of good cheer for I have overcome the world, but the mention of Jesus would have me labeled a Jesus freak when in fact I’ve never actually read the Bible, only authors who have read it so my quote is second-hand and I cannot even tell you which book in the Bible it is from. Things just float in and out of my mind because I read too much. I made a note to look it up later.
A seventy-something woman, Marilyn, said she had always been happy for the most part and preferred books and movies that portrayed happy people. She said she wrote a story about a trip to Italy with her husband because it was so happy with so much local color but her writing group told her it was fine as a travel piece but nothing going on otherwise. She put it away but kept it in her mind and wanted to salvage it because it meant something special to her. The pig snorted but I gave him a threatening look and he recoiled fast.
He was last, said he was unemployed, happy at first, later unhappy when he had to move in with his mother. Got a few laughs with that. Said he didn’t have a clue how to write about happiness, didn’t think it was possible if you had a crappy childhood but got a special price; if you signed up for two workshops you got this one free and was just waiting for the sex workshop to start next week, the only one sold out. Said his mother was paying to get him out of the house. At least he was honest. We all snickered. I asked him why he hadn’t been in the humor workshop and he said forced humor made him nervous and he dropped out though didn’t get a refund so he would try to endure this hopeless happiness workshop to get his money’s worth. Don’t do us any favors, I thought but did not say.
A thirty-something woman, Carmen, said she had also signed up with the special deal on all three and she didn’t understand the concept: All the books she liked had unhappy people from horrible families because they made her feel better. She said she was open to the idea but didn’t see how you could write a good story about it but she did like happy endings. She too, was waiting for the sex workshop.
Everyone else said the same thing: Three workshops for the price of two and had no idea what to do with happiness or why bother since they’d pretty much all been told happiness does not make for a compelling story: It has to be won though conflict. I must say everyone seemed bored to death by the concept.
After the introductions we were told to write a short story in four or five paragraphs where happiness reigns and bring in either conflict, action or psychological consciousness. This exercise stumped most of us. Except for Suki--she got right on it. Daryl was peevishly chewing on the end of a pencil and tapping his right foot on the chair in front of him. Brendon, a nervous twenty-something with a web of tattoos on his young arms kept flicking his Bic and running his hands through his hair.
This is what Brendon wrote:
Last Saturday I went to the medical marijuana clinic to get my weekly supply. I was up for trying something new so the clerk, Rain, recommended “Rocket to Russia.” Cool. A bud named after a Ramones album. Many of the samplings have names that correspond to rock groups or songs. Marijuana is first and foremost a rock and roll drug. I used to buy my stuff from a friend who lives in the outer Mission but when medical marijuana was legalized in California I got my card. Now I only walk a couple blocks down Polk Street. Way more convenient. I’ve tried the brownies and even the hard candy they make with weed but I still prefer to smoke, especially with a water pipe. I invented a water pipe in my spare time and am going to patent it. It’s way cool. A smooth, refreshing hit that staggers the mind and body. That’s what you want. When I got back to my apartment my dog, Tracker, had gotten into the garbage and the kitchen was a disaster. I put a little “Rocket to Russia” in a bowl and took a monster hit. Then I blasted the Ramones (on vinyl) and thought about the garbage in the kitchen but was too stoned to deal with it. Would I rocket to Russia? Who knows? Who cares? My own domain may be a far as I get today but in my mind, I’m all over the place. That’s my trip. I’m happy with it.
Here’s what Suki wrote:
My father taught me to drive on a Sunday morning in the Sunset District when traffic was light and we had plenty of time. My mother stayed at home. She said her little daughter behind the wheel of a car on busy streets did not give her any ease but she packed us a snack of fruit, tea, rice cakes and peanut butter. She said we should stop at the ocean and have a picnic. I was so excited to start driving; it would mean independence from my parents who treat me like a child. They say they always will.
I was a little nervous but soon relaxed and drove with the feeling I had been doing it forever. I longed to drive over the entire city and begged my father to let me but he said the traffic would be too heavy in certain areas and didn’t think it a good idea but that I could drive along Pacific Highway for a few miles and stop wherever I wanted to have our picnic.
I had a wonderful time with my father that day and when we arrived home Mother had our favorite sushi rolls prepared for us. Father told Mother about my driving lesson and they both laughed when he told her how I slammed on the brakes by mistake and caused the car behind me to swerve into the other lane, how the driver shook is fist at me as he passed us and all the other cars moved far away from me. Father said his hair turned white and tried to convince us of this. We said it was still black but he said, “No, it’s white, I’m sure.” Mother laughed and brought out a hand mirror but Father said he was afraid to look.
We watched television together that night and Father laughed more than usual during The Simpsons. He said next Sunday I could drive to the Mission District. Mother sighed as she worked on her embroidery happy to have us safe at home: She never learned to drive and could only admire my courage.
Daryl wrote:
Saturday my mother went shopping with her friend Beaula so I knew I would have the house to myself for most of the day. My mother is a shopoholic. She jokes about this but if you saw her house, you’d know it’s true. Stuff everywhere, most of it shit but I think it makes her happy.
I’m happy when she leaves and I can pour myself an extra large vodka and tonic and watch football in peace. I pretty much only drink when she’s not at home because my father was an alcoholic and died from it. That’s not happy for her so I refrain, but when she’s away, the big rat will play. Sometimes if the game gets boring, and face it, the 49ers can piss you off, I watch a little porn. Not a lot. It’s not really my thing but sometimes I like to check things out. My mother definitely won’t be down with that so I never do it in her presence. I respect my mother.
When she comes home, I pretend I’m asleep so she won’t know how much I’ve had to drink. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. If I’m awake she’ll want to show me what she bought and I will have to feign some sort of interest in yet another teapot, towel rack or toaster oven. I’m just not up to it. Sometimes she buys me clothes and that’s really a problem. She has taste for shit. It hurts her feelings I suppose that I won’t wear what she buys but she is good about it and returns them. I wish she’d just give me the cash.
I love Saturday when she goes out shopping. It’s the only day I’m really happy anymore. I’ll get my own place again, I‘m sure. Then I’ll be happy more often but for now, once a week will have to do. Sunday she goes to church but I usually have a hangover and sleep through it.
Carmen wrote:
My boyfriend surprised me with a special treat on Valentine’s Day. He bought me a designer handbag I had my eye on for a really long time. It wasn’t a complete surprise because I had taken him to Saks to show it to him. It was really expensive and he was sort of shocked when he looked at the price tag but he really loves me so he had to do it.These were the highlights. I won’t bother with what I wrote. It wasn’t as good as the above stories. Marilyn’s wasn’t great either and we went for coffee afterwards to discuss the workshop. I‘ll be curious to see who shows up tomorrow.
My sister’s boyfriend gave her a silver necklace in the shape of a heart. Big deal. It probably cost $9.99 in Marshalls. She was jealous, I could tell and that made me a little bit happier than I suppose it should have. She’s always so obnoxious because she has a much better job than I do. She’s always showing me the clothes she buys trying to make me feel bad but I’ve decided not to let her get to me. The new handbag surpasses all of her junk so I’m ahead.
When I carry my new handbag I’m usually pretty happy. I can tell when other women look at it with envy. This makes me proud. I tell my boyfriend he should be proud to be walking with a woman carrying this bag. He looks confused. I don’t think he gets the importance of a good bag. He said to me, “Carmen, what in the world difference does it make what purse you carry?” Duh. I didn’t have time to explain to him the difference between Prada and Nine West but someday I must. He should know these things if he expects to run around with a classy babe like me. For now, it’s enough that he wanted to make me happy. If I’m happy, so is the world. He’s learning.
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