Beautiful day in Robbinsdale; the first really beautiful day of the year. The temperature soared to 70 degrees. Tomorrow will only be 45, and Friday colder yet, but still. It happened. We had a nice day. Means a lot in Minnesota.

I went to see my doctor this morning, to have him look at a small infection in one of my fingers. It wasn’t swollen to the size of a Hostess Twinkie, and it didn’t hurt all that much, but it just wouldn’t heal up. I’ve tolerated it for about a month, faithfully feeding it Neosporin and re-bandaging it twice a day, but it refuses to take the hint. So, shame-faced, feeling like a sissy, I went to see my personal physician. I fully expected him to sneer and tell me to rub some dirt on it, but he dutifully prescribed an antibiotic.

Now I’m waiting for the prescription. I am, to tell the truth, growing disillusioned with Walgreens. The last prescription my doctor sent them sat unfilled for a week, until I went in personally and requested an explanation. (They needed my new insurance information as it turned out, but they might have – you know – sent me a message informing me of the problem.) Now I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to go in and hold them up for my Miracle Bread Mold. I remember an old gag from Al Capp’s Li’l Abner comic strip, where somebody wanders into the Dogpatch post office and asks if there’s any mail for him, and the postmaster drawls, “Well, looky here – Ah got this Speshul Dee-livery letter fer yuh 20 years ago. Ah been meanin’ to drop it off next time I was in your neck o’ the woods.” Walgreens seems to have adopted a similar policy for prescriptions.

That wasn’t even what I meant to post about tonight.

I wanted to talk a little more about April’s Fool by Scott Bell, the delightful cop novel I reviewed last night. When I ask myself, what made it so much fun? the answer was easy – the hero was cheerful.

You realize how rare cheerful main characters are in today’s fiction?

Now I’m not exactly a world ambassador for happiness. I’m known, among my constantly shrinking circle of friends, as the Ancient Mariner at every wedding, the Banquo at every feast.

But I am not immune to the charm of a cheerful voice. I can’t produce the effect, but I can respond to it.

We have a highly false stereotype in literature, it seems to me, that says happiness equals shallowness (I blame the Russians). Anyone who acquires a teaspoon full of wisdom, our stories proclaim, must necessarily be plunged into despair.

Several of the police mystery series I follow – and enjoy – have heroes that blur together in my memory. I can’t distinguish one from the other, because they all have the same back story. Every bloody one of them is mourning the death of a beloved wife. He has never gotten over it, and he obsesses on his job to mask his grief.

I’m not saying it’s entirely unrealistic. But it’s become a trope.

Life, you’ll note, isn’t like that. Aren’t the best leaders people who know how to raise other people’s spirits? Aren’t optimistic people more likely to succeed than pessimists (such as I)?

If we want to be realistic as writers, shouldn’t most of our heroes (unless we’re writing tragedy) be optimists?

I think this qualifies as testimony against interest, so you should pay attention.