“It is very difficult to be a writer,” remarked the girl in the front seat. I was in the front seat too, though on the passenger side. I always sat in the passenger seat—I couldn't drive. But I also liked to talk loudly and without distraction.
It was midnight and we were in the sticks.
“It’s hard to be a writer,” she repeated, “because you have to be depressed. All the best writers are.” She listed several writers as we sat there, in her car on my front lawn. The best of them were utterly dejected, she said, some enviably so. Their children were killed in freak accidents, their family villages overrun by men with very long beards. Their bosses spat on their faces inexpicably, for hours at a time. They were forced to work past the average retirement age, just to feed their hoard of orphan dogs. Genius was only birthed from hardship she said, of which I had had none. No great tragedy had befallen me, save the products of thoughtful fabrication. I could not be a writer in my current circumstances.
That night I went to sleep with the knowledge that I must, to succeed, legitimately fuck things up.
It was midnight and we were in the sticks.
“It’s hard to be a writer,” she repeated, “because you have to be depressed. All the best writers are.” She listed several writers as we sat there, in her car on my front lawn. The best of them were utterly dejected, she said, some enviably so. Their children were killed in freak accidents, their family villages overrun by men with very long beards. Their bosses spat on their faces inexpicably, for hours at a time. They were forced to work past the average retirement age, just to feed their hoard of orphan dogs. Genius was only birthed from hardship she said, of which I had had none. No great tragedy had befallen me, save the products of thoughtful fabrication. I could not be a writer in my current circumstances.
That night I went to sleep with the knowledge that I must, to succeed, legitimately fuck things up.
