tempestuous seas?

as writers do we enjoy lives filled with high dramatic moments and turgid action or a life of ease and peaceful contentment?
do we invite tragedy and trauma into our lives- because, you know, it makes good fodder for our books?
do we live more dangerously on the edge or do we raise cats and knit and tend vegetable gardens by the sea and live only within the pages of our notebooks?
do I spend too much time with my nose in the leaves of a dictionary?
am I happy because I got to use the word ‘turgid’ in a post? finally!
I’m thinking of writers. Writers whose personal histories I know. Agatha Christie and that whole disappearance thing. Enid Blyton and her general unpleasantness and dislike of children. Apparently traits shared by Roald Dahl- or was that just his own children? The Marquis de Sade and the oubliette and the poop.
To be great and/or successful, must we suffer? And is there some weirdness within us that wants hardship because only then can we plumb the depths of human despair? and of course inversely understand joy.
and what if we don’t want to plumb the depths….
what if we want to write cozy tales about true love and kittens and dragons that don’t want to flame your face off but are highly evolved and loyal? not all at the same time of course although there might be a story in there somewhere.
personally I aim for the middling ground in my life. Just enough excitement and plenty of time for a nice cup of tea. And yet, things happen, right?!
How about you? Is it a life of adventure or the armchair for you? Am I pushing the envelope by refusing to use capitals (except for the proper names) in this blog or is that just so ezra pound?
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