I’m convinced that the madness of the artist is a real and true thing, indeed. It’s probably nothing short of an affliction, a psychosis kind of disease that’s devoid of a cure. The symptoms of said disease are not overtly noticeable. They are internal, within the mind. An artist suffering from it can smile perfectly and laugh while in the company of others, but inside tells another story. What are the symptoms? I’ll tell you mine. One moment I can be high as a kite on how I feel about my writing or music making. The next moment I’m awash with negative thoughts of being a fraud with no right to call myself a writer or musician.
The psychosis and plight of the writer is: he most wants to write during times when he is most not able to do so, say like while at work or on the road traveling from destination to destination.
It’s madness. And it’s a madness.