Romantisizing the tortured writers soul has always been a favorite daydream of mine. I imagine a desperate and romantic figure, a recluse who has known great pain. They now sit, looking out from their writers desk, drinking scotch neat, smoking 40 a day with a beautiful handwritten notebook in hand, a faraway look in their eyes. They suffer for their art…
At least that’s the way I like to imagine them. I wonder how many people who read E.L James’s books were then quietly horrified at the cheery middle-aged librarian looking woman sat on Oprah’s couch?
My problem is that my life is not now reflective of that fantasy. Can anything I create be really good, if I am so, well, chirpy? Everything is going well, which has affected my output somewhat – upwards, not downwards. I struggle with success. Even the ubiquitous inner critic is being quietly positive.
I wrote about a 1000 words yesterday on my W.I.P and on a re-read, got a rather nice “that’s rather good” from the normally militant posh English accented Nazi. At first I thought she was trying sarcasm. Y’know like “that’s rather good – NOT!” and I read it again. “Could do with work on the second sentence, I’d change the clause but overall, I liked it”.
Who are you and what have you done with the spawn of Satan?
So am I right too worry and do we have to be tortured to create anything good?
Comments as always, welcome.