Man’s relationship to his muse has always been tempestuous. When the muse arrives predictably every day at our desks, we’re enraptured by our work, in love with our every superb sentence. Words seem to flow from our fingers with little help from our intellect. We’re not so much writing as taking dictation. Our work feels … Continue reading
Why do we conflate creating with suffering? The word “artist” conjures images of manic-depressive poets who drink themselves to death and mad painters who chop off their own ears. Our conception of writers is especially bleak. In our minds, the writer is a tormented soul who spends his days hunched over his desk, forehead wrinkled … Continue reading
The Blank-Faced Confidante 