Author, Author!

Have you ever wondered if you were truly meant to be a writer? Deep down you sense that it might just be so. Me too.

With that in mind, I started looking for places to submit a piece I’d written, hoping to see it published in some high-end magazine. I began by researching online sites, reading their submission guidelines, and perusing past issues of their magazines. This is when I noticed a pattern developing in my study. Every one of these magazines included multiple tortured artists’ narratives in their stable of contributors. For example, Bob the bohemian overcame his drug habit to win a Pulitzer for his story on “Humans, and the Fetal Position,” or Sheila B., a successful romance novelist, who was hooked on booze and zombie movies, a deadly combination, she says in her biography, and how she spent eight weeks locked up at a clinic in Minnesota detoxing while being supervised (tied to a bed) 24 hours a day. After her release, she was troubled with bouts of depression and took to electric shock therapy for relief. Problem was, she claims, it only frizzed her hair and did little to cure her depression. Another narrative about a popular zine author and blogger, Eddie J., a teenage hipster who was addicted to cookie dough and Mad-Dog 20/20 wine that led to bulimia. He spent ten weeks at a dairy farm outside of Fresno milking cows to cure his addictions.

Seeing this, I wondered if there weren’t any normal, well balanced, successful authors. It turns out, there aren’t, at least not according to my Google search. Psychiatrists claim there is a definite link between mental illness and creativity. Just great! How do any of these book and magazine peddlers expect anyone to compete with all of those people? I know, that’s a rhetorical question, and even though I enjoy using the word rhetorical, it still doesn’t change the facts or make me a scarred, struggling author whose story is too tantalizing to pass up. No. I have been cursed.  I don’t have any terrifying experiences or stories about how the entire time I was drying out in rehab; I was continually tortured by a crazy nurse who, in her own way, made me into a better person by keeping me chained to a fence post and locked inside of a barn for two months binge watching re-runs of Hee Haw.

Nope. I have led a good, mostly normal, life. Or at least, whatever qualifies as a normal life today. No horrible tragedies or anomalies, no near fatal illnesses, or life threatening acne. Oh sure, there was the bed wetting issue while serving in the military during basic training, some pot smoking after high school, and more than my share of excessive drinking, but nothing that left any permanent damage to my delicate psyche. I came clean on my own. I suppose I could play the angle that I enjoyed, a little too much, being spanked as a child, or when I was five, I would steal the dog biscuits from our schnauzer’s food bowl and hide in the closet to eat them. But nothing more. I think my problem is that I am not randy enough to be a famous writer. Not Randy, like Bob’s friend Randy, but randy meaning harsh, or crude, someone with an edge or possibly distemper. According to Fyodar Dostoyevsky, the king of tortured souls, “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.”  Wow! It seems the lesson here is that one doesn’t necessarily need to be mad to be a great writer-- but clearly, it helps.