I’ve been contemplating and researching where inspiration comes from. This will be a sort of mini-series in my blog right now. This was not going to be my original post, but it kind of asked to be done.
So I’m watching The Fault in Our Stars and the cancer-ridden protagonist visits her favorite writer in Amsterdam. He is, predictably, an alcoholic recluse with no social skills and a lot of unopened mail. Is this what we are fated to become as writers? Why are we depicted as this archetype of the unapproachable and uncaring hermit?
Is it Hemingway and Bukowski who have done this to our image? Or do we really have to be complete social miscreants in order to be bold and raw and creative? Do we get our inspiration from our lonely life or does our success drive us to this unyielding loneliness?
I’ve struggled a lot with various mental… idiosyncrasies. And I’ve often felt that I have to live some sort of tortured existence in order to produce art. But what if that’s not true? I’ve been reading Stephen King’s On Writing and his thought is, well, no. Just write. Like all the time, whenever you can. And live your life.
(And ok, yeah, King wrote a lot while on a lot of drugs. But he’s been sober for a lot of years too.)
And why would you be an asshole to your fans? I like to think I’d be humble and grateful. Also, I follow JK Rowling on Twitter and she just seems lovely.
Side note on this movie: who the fuck makes out in Anne Frank’s attic? And why did people cheer? Because the chick looked sick? Just because someone carries oxygen doesn’t mean they aren’t DTF.
Side note about this side note: full disclosure, I did write the first draft of this entry after drinking two glasses of wine. So maybe I should evaluate my life…
Side side side note: this movie did NOT make me cry. You can’t prove shit.