In the past few days I’ve been reading a lot about authors who have committed suicide. I’ve haven’t really sought this information out, it just seems to have come my way. I was reading Mortified, when I came across an entry about The Bell Jar. I’d been wanting to read this book for a while, but my interest was doubled when this young girl wrote about how a woman stuck her head in the oven to commit suicide. I dug around a little bit and found out that The Bell Jar was actually a thinly veiled memoir…Sylvia Plath committed suicide by sticking her head in an oven.
Then there was the article on Hemingway, he put a shotgun to his temple and blew his head off. This reminded me of Hunter S. Thompson who, just a year and a half ago shot himself in the head with a shotgun. His most famous work was probably Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
I have to ask myself, is genius worth the price? Or is this simply genius coupled with mental illness? Where do you draw the line between the two? Then again, there are plenty of famous authors out there that aren’t contemplating suicide (I think). On the other hand, how many Hemingway’s are there? I’d love to be a great writer, but would not want to pay this high a price. Just some thoughts…
Speaking of being a great writer, my writing isn’t going so well. You’ve probably guessed. I’ve done a bang up job of distracting you though, wouldn’t you say? I haven’t written much. I keep telling myself that it’s because of this blasted day shift and that once that’s over I can spend many a morning and early afternoon wrapped in the bliss that only several well written pages can provide. Is that really it though? Don’t I always have some sort of excuse? I hope not…I want things to be different this time. NaNoWriMo is coming up quickly so that will help. I’m going to spend the latter half of October outlining and preparing. I even have a four day weekend in November so that will help.
(Image of Hunter S. Thompson)