Most creative people are a little insane. By creative people, I mean those who are immersed in the creative arts; artists, designers, writers, musicians, magicians, etc.–and the degree of their insanity is directly proportional to the degree of their creative genius.
Don’t believe it? Think about F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Jim Morrison, Janice Joplin… There’s not a mentally healthy individual in the lot. They probably should have been on meds, but I’m kind of glad they weren’t. Can you imagine Jim Morrison on Prosac? Or Janice Joplin sober? Had they been sane, the world would have been a duller place. Unfortunately, the gifts they brought us came at a very high price. Not to us, but to them.
My own talent with the written word, pales in comparison. It’s okay. I’m not into suffering and for the most part, life is good. I like to think I’m well-adjusted and
most some of my friends who are writers seem fairly well-adjusted, too. Still, there’s that little slice of our psyche that’s just a bit askew.
You know what I mean. That miniscule of wierdness that we live with. We have imaginary friends. Hear voices. Notice things that others don’t even see. We build worlds and create parallel universes. We slay dragons, villians and sympathetic characters with great enthusiasm. We lie compulsively because you can’t write fiction without lying. Some of us are even misguided enough to believe that when our hero and heroine fall in love, they will live happily ever after.
There’s a smattering of Schizophrenia mixed in with a dash of Disassociated Personality Disorder and Narcissim. We’re out of touch with the rest of the world and we love it, except for when we hate it. Add Bi-polar to the list. And then, there’s that masochistic streak that compels us to constantly risk rejection, ridicule or, even worse, lack of acknowledgement, everytime we submit the product of our creative souls to an agent or editor.
I think I’m depressed. Tomorrow, I’m taking a mental health day and cleaning out the garage.