Writing is a pursuit not suitable for the happy; happy people have the most uninteresting stories to tell.
There is very little to write about happiness. When one is happy, one eventually stops drawing attention to one's internal struggles. The world seems like a bright and beautiful place, and the happy relish this slice of paradise and barely find anything worthy to discuss. Happiness draws one out, toward the world, as it were. Pain, on the other hand, reels world into one's center.
Pain is a writer's bedfellow. All writers search for that one point in every story that piques an audience's interest. What, pray tell, could be more evocative, than a broken heart or an unfulfilled desire? Writing inspired by the joys of curtain shopping hardly qualifies as evocative.
Writing must command its audience into participation; happiness stirs as much emotion as a wooden spatula hanging on a kitchen wall. Fear and hurt attack an audience like an wounded lioness her hunter; happiness glides through its audience like breezy air on a humid day.
Writing is a pursuit for those familiar with pain, those who, at some point, have spat pain in the face and lived to tell the story. The most poignant writing involves stories that are framed by an experience of despair, emptiness, meaninglessness, and unfathomable sadness.
The sad have the most to offer in writing. The writing of the sad are the most legible testaments of the human condition.