What's wrong with you, Mack?

"Mack, I read your essays, stories, and poems, but eventually, I must stop because you're so full of melancholia! Is your life so sad? If not, why do you write so much about tragedy and loss? It's depressing."

"Well," I began and paused, searching for the right words.

"That's a deep thought and wet," my friend remarked.

"Funny," I said without laughing. "As I began to say, there is a lot of sorrow in life, so I have written about it."

"But your life isn't always sorrowful, right? Why not write about the joyful parts?"

I thought about that for a few moments before answering him. Finally, I said, "It's because joy expresses itself naturally to others, and they like to share it. However, sadness and trouble are more private and bring people down. People around me don't want to be bothered by my problems, so the best way for me to process difficult emotions is to write about them. Even if no one reads about them, I can work out my thoughts and feelings, so I'm no longer carrying around troubles and difficulties. Writing has become my therapy."

"Oh, I see. Do you ever write about happier times?"

"Yes. I do that when I want to share my excitement or joy or when I don't want to forget a pleasant memory. Other times, I jot down a funny episode to put in a social media post or a family newsletter. I love to make people laugh, so my writing is not all snake and sourpusses."

"When can I see that side of you, then? Why don't you show your sense of humor more often?"

"It's one thing to share a jot or two, but quite another to write enough to occupy multiple readers' attention for several minutes. What makes me chuckle or belly laugh may not cause so much as a smirk for you. I am easily amused. I find the humor in many things. I also find beauty wherever possible. I'm an inveterate punster. My wife knew that when she married me, but the onset of social media has made this situation virtually unbearable for her. I share memes daily that challenge her patience!"

"Again, Mack, why haven't you written like this?"

I sighed. "I can only guess at that. As I said before, writing from my heart typically means working out an emotionally challenging situation. I've written extensively about losing my mother to cancer when I was 17 years old. The impact on my life then compared to now in my 50s is just as profound. My father loved me but struggled to say or show it. My wife has suffered two life-threatening illnesses since early 2019. Dear friends have died or suffered. I've had struggles with mental, physical, and emotional health.

"Humor is a coping mechanism, and writing is therapy. My counselor urges me to "keep writing. It's good for you." I have written dozens of documents that will never see the light of (published) day. When I write therapeutically, it's easier to maintain my focus. When I jot down a quick anecdote, I can stay on task. However, when I try to bring together a feel-good narrative, I wander all over creation, fall into a crevice, and die painfully in the abyss of confusion and waywardness. In better words, 'It ain't pretty.'"

My friend chuckled softly. "Yeah, I bet it ain't. I can totally see you doin' that."

"And that, my friend, is why you don't see me publishing stories like that. I'm likelier to tell them to a small group of coworkers or friends."

"Such as?"

"Such as what happened to me last Friday."

"Don't leave me hanging, Mack. Spill it."

"Fine. We had a little problem with mice at home this summer, so I contacted a local company that deals in wilderness products, including small canisters of tiny wood pellets soaked in predator pee. For mice, it's bobcat urine. The canisters are about the size of a seasoning bottle, with a flip top. You open the lid, remove the safety seal, and then place the bottle out of the way to drive the creatures from your home.

"Last week, I placed one near my easy chair. However, I should have put it closer to the wall than I did. On Friday morning, when I picked up a shirt to wear to work, I noticed a musty smell near it. I hoped it was just the jar of pellets. However, as I drove to work, I realized that my shirt smelled like bobcat urine.

"When I arrived at the correctional facility, I knew that I had a choice to make: Go through my day smelling musty and mildewy like Bobcat pee but not melt in the overheated building, or change into a long-sleeve sweatshirt and overheat myself all day.

"Right there in the parking lot, in view of the security cameras, I pulled off the offending shirt and pulled on the sweatshirt, vainly sucking in my ample gut to make myself appear less massive than I am. Needless to say, I moved that canister when I got home, and threw all the clothes around it into the wash!"

"What a riot! What a hoot. Is that the "predator pee dot com" company you're always talking about, Mack? Do those products work?"

"They certainly kept me away."

"You are too much, Mack. But see, this is what I mean. You need to write more of this, and not so much the doom and gloom!"

"I'll see what I can do. No promises, man."