I’m usually the first to scoff at the incredibly problematic belief that mental illness and suffering make for good art. It’s a very weird way of glamorizing real problems that should be treated, not put on a pedestal.
Being abjectly miserable, hating this house, going without running water, hot water, internet, heat, and a kitchen (at various times, mostly not all at once) has apparently been good for my writing.
While there have been a fair few days that I couldn’t bring myself to change out of my pajamas, let alone crack open Scrivener, on the days I do write I’ve been more productive than I have been in months. Perhaps it has something to do with being unable to do anything else- with the closest entertainment three miles away and us having no money (did I mention we just bought a house) there’s not much to do except work. It gives me hope that I’ll be ready to start sending out my manuscript by my birthday, which is my current goal.
Of course, I have to survive another month of renovations before then (thanks, contractor!) but it’s something to feel good about, don’t you think?
Where do you fall on the ‘suffering and art’ debate? What have you found that promoted surprising productivity? Who’s excited for the reno to be done? Oh wait, that’s me.
P.S. My word count is currently 63,60.