Neurotic writers are the shit! The raging mental illness Anne Lamott describes in Bird by Bird is endearing. David Sederis’ shame in Santaland Diaries is heroic. The seemingly endless tales of imposter syndrome from all of my heroes is embiggening. I suffer thusly. . .
And yet the reality, in my life at least, is depressing. I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped by some very talented tricksters. But, in all fairness, I can’t blame it all on them.
(though we damned well do it anyway.)
Continue reading “What’s All This Neurotic Writer Stuff, Then?”
Continuing on the theme from yesterday’s post, GAD Guide: How to be a Neurotic Writer in 15 Steps, I got to thinking about the underlying precepts of the neurotic writer’s life. If you’re going to be a neurotic writer, you want to be as uptight as you can be, right? So here are three principles to cultivate in order to be your unstable best.
(plus, it makes for another listicle and listicles are all the rage with the kids these days.)
Continue reading “Three Principles of the Highly Neurotic Writer”
Writing wisdom states: Write what you know. That’s mostly correct. Kind of, I guess. I mean, “write what you know” doesn’t REALLY work. Think about it. How could we have anything science fiction? No one knows hyperdrives or time machines. Or what about fantasy? Orcs, spells, floating castles, no one knows them. Or, take a more realistic example, how could a mild-mannered author write about a psycho serial killer? All she’s murdered are the trees that made the paper she wrote on.
Continue reading “GAD Guide: How to be a Neurotic Writer in 15 Steps”
Being a writer is a bit like being a super hero. There is one’s secret “real life” and writing lair. Then there is one’s public front, sometimes with a pen name. It’s lonely, mostly solitary work. It takes a special person to pull it off, and buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. Fans always want more, are highly critical, and more often than not, one’s best is only good enough for a moment.
(if only the super powers . . .)
Still. Worth it.
(eh . . . maybe)
“Where am I going and why am I in this hand basket?” —Murphy
What the fuck?
I ask that question often. I ask it because I find that the life is supremely confuzling (confusing + puzzling). I’m fairly sure life is that way for everyone, but it is particularly true for me. Why “particularly” for me? Maybe it’s my Asperger’s. Maybe it’s my mediocre intelligence. Maybe the world is just fucking crazy.
(perhaps all three?)
Continue reading “What’s All This Damnable Humbuggery Then?”