The Mad Desperate Ones

There are many types of artists--when I say that I don't mean painters and sculptors etc.; I mean their motivation to create art--there are many types of artists, all equal in worth, and by far the best type of artist is the mad, desperate artist who is motivated not by passion or interest or acclaim but by an all-consuming, unyielding need to create art. I myself am such an artist, and damn proud of it. We rare and tormented few are lucky enough to have tapped directly into Where Art Comes From and now it fills us and the pressure builds until we are compelled by forces beyond our control to perpetrate violent and beautiful works of art.

"You should blog about that," Mrs. Benson tells me.

The problem is that I'm not a professional mad desperate artist who has the financial backing to perpetrate art full time. I am a very-nearly-professional author who is also a guy with the same tangled mess of conflicting responsibilities that everyone else has. How am I supposed to write my novel when I spend all of my available time and energy doing everything but writing?

"You should blog about that," Mrs. Benson tells me. She says that a lot. Whenever I go off on some hot-tempered rant or get onto a particularly funny line of thinking, or when I make some vague philosophical observation, or when I bitch about my Dad's idiot dogs, she tells me to blog about it.

She's right, of course. I need to feed this starving blog, and I need to exercise my writing, and of course all of you must be missing my charming contribution to your lives. All three of you. But writing is hard, man! People don't really know how much physical energy goes into creating art. I'm not talking about the 2.7 calories per hour I burn slouching over a keyboard and wiggling my fingers; this is emotional energy. It leaves you tired. Even writing this blog takes some, because even though I'm just vomiting words I'm editing as I go and exploring then discarding entire trains of thought and criticizing myself the whole time. This is just a blog entry. I'm aware that nobody has high expectations for it. Maybe this gives you some idea of how draining it is for me to flail and thrash away at my novel, which must be perfect.

Maybe you think I'm just pissing and moaning.

It gnaws at me, it itches in my mind until I figure out exactly how I want to express an idea. I inhabit my characters to learn who they are and to see the story from their perspective. I listen to conversations between characters while I do the dishes, while I shower, as I lie in bed. There are times when it would be nice to turn it off, but I can't. The stories are always there, pleading and prying and bellowing, begging to be told, and as I muddle ever forward I am gradually finding the time and, most importantly, the energy to let them out. This novel will be written. It's going to hurt, but I feel pretty positive.

There, I blogged about it.