Thursday, October 18, 2012
The title is only half in jest. As life imitates art so does an article on the BBC site proclaim that many writers would become mad, save for their art. I’ve never felt close to mad, even when I worked with mad folks I never felt any contagion. But I did write a blog to that effect and constructed a couple of tweets on the subject. The basic theory is that genius and madness are divided by a cigarette paper and writing keeps such people from falling into the abyss. At a lesser level (I am not claiming great things for my prose) writing keeps me from feeling profoundly angry with my lack of literary output. I don’t like sulking and so to have begun another novella leaves me at the end of the day feeling chipper. Here’s the beginning. It seems to be called, Easeful Death. I have plagiariswd phrases fom the 19th century romantic poets for a couple of recent titles.
That’s how it starts. How it ends I have no idea but the notion of being told you have six months to live has stimulated the flow of words. Six pages in two days is better than no pages in two months.