I think there is a reason so many writers just got drunk and scribbled pages half in the bag. And that would be because it hurts to look at the junk in our lives. My life isn't all junk. I just wrote an essay about contentment. But even that dredged up the times and reasons for discontent and I acknowledged the work of contentment. I pray for it.
As for fiction, I found a story set in Kuwait. About time. Kuwait is many things and I wasn't sure how to write about it without me getting in the way. Like Colombia was to me, it's beautiful ugly or ugly beautiful. Slap that on a bumper sticker for anywhere in the world. But writing fiction set in Kuwait is allowing me space to talk about the country I consider home, without getting to sappy or judge-y. Or covering either by calling it fiction.