Are all writers completely fucked up?

There is a practically endless list of writers who died of drink or drugs, almost died of drink or drugs, killed themselves to end their misery, tried to kill themselves to end their misery, couldn’t keep a wife, couldn’t keep a job, or were just generally depressed about their lives. I personally am a Marlboro-smoking alcoholic who fails at anorexia but keeps trying, and if anyone thinks I’m going to live past 35 they have more faith in me than I do.

Why are writers so… I’m going to stick with “fucked up.” Why?

It’s like a side-effect. It should be written as a warning in the beginning of every writing book: “Warning: Writing may cause severe mental distress and has been known to lead to premature death. Write at your own risk.”

That said, I know a fair number of perfectly well-adjusted writers, some with spouses and children, who seem to be happy most of the time. I look at them and wonder how they do it. With everything clanging around in their heads, how do they stay sane?

I can’t do it. I’m pretty sure that as long as I write, I’m going to be a mess. Am I going to stop writing? Of course not. I can’t. It’s part of what keeps me going, like breathing. And there’s always the chance I’d be this way even if I weren’t writing, and then I’d be miserable and alcoholic but without the fun, the release of writing, and that would just be shit on wheels.

And now I need a cigarette.