The Cruel Myth of the Suffering Artist
As a writer, I indulged myself in pain — but I realized I could make art and survive by listening to it instead
Must the artist not have left a foot in his childhood, and projected the other one into his grave?
—Hervé Guibert, The Mausoleum of Lovers
On my way to the next literary event, the first thing I’ll wonder is who I will see. The second is what I’ll see: nothing? Beer and wine? Or, by some grace, a full bar? I’ll rehearse the words — Sapphire martini, extra dirty — and picture myself among real writers, balancing that conic drain of a cocktail whose slivers of ice drift into each other as they too drown in gin. It won’t last long, and neither will the next, and neither will my self-respect, but regretting what I’ll say will last months. In the morning, I’ll withdraw: from social media, from events. My story will be that no one in the industry wants anything to do with me; they’ve only tolerated me thus far. I’ll cultivate isolation. When I become lonely, I’ll text another writer, whose response won’t be the affirmation I want. I’ll delete the conversation and spend all my time reading. Some passage will seem sharable. I’ll log in to social media. People…
