The whole idea of “suffering for our art” seems romantic when it happens in the movies. But the real-life version can sometimes seem as if it includes a whole lot more suffering than art. I’ll venture to say that anyone who’s ever tried to write anything more than a pun has spent some his fair share of time wandering around, hands clenched in his hair, eyes wild and bloodshot, muttering to himself, and generally looking a) agonized, b) insane, or c) undead (take your pick). When asked why we write, we’re usually quick to respond with an answer along the lines of “because I love it.” But sometimes it’s hard to figure out how we can love something that can make us so miserable.
Story by K.M. Weiland