Writers and madness: is it the industry making them crazy or the 'creative gene'?
Updated: Jan 28, 2022
I am done with writing enormous and highly detailed blog posts that aim to attract the interest of a literary agent - for anyone who wants to know - it doesn't work!
The whole publishing process is an utter nightmare and I have to say the people involved (with the exception of one or two) have been, quite frankly, totally useless.
I understand that it's a 'competitive market' and 'people must have followings to sell books' etc, etc, but here I am trying so hard to help other people yet why is NO ONE trying to help ME?!
After carefully crafting two books and writing over 180,000 words, I have emailed and submitted, and written synopses, query letters, chapters a whole fucking book proposal which took 2 months to write, begged, pleaded, sold my soul and nothing whatever has come of any of it.
Then, the editor that was meant to be helping me started backtracking so I emailed three others and none of them responded. The only one that did quoted me £85 per hour which is extortion! (Not at the side of my doctor but still)...
I'm so sick of the whole thing that right now that I'm ready to chuck the towel in.
Is this why writing is synonymous with mental illness I wonder?
While researching novel writing I stumbled on a YouTube documentary on Virginia Woolf who had some terrible bouts of (what would appear to have been) bipolar disorder, all throughout her adult life.
The pattern was a classic one - childhood trauma, repeated pattern of relapse due to shit relationships with other people & stress created from World Wars, oh ....AND publishing!
So I need to be careful here....
Doctors are a total disappointment too...
The Virginia Woolf documentary made me realise there has been no attempt by any psychiatrist in two decades to address my lifestyle or any of the necessary changes I've had to adopt to stay well.
I’ve had to do all of this on my own!
This includes trying to forge out another career as a writer who can have a flexible work schedule so that he can stay well.
I've also had to readdress (sacrifice) any plans of having a 'normal life' by ditching my first career, aborting aspirations to have relationships or whatever & AVOIDING STRESS at all costs because it is an immediate trigger to relapse - but what's happening? Oh yeah - other shit people letting me down and causing me stress yet AGAIN!
Bipolar disorder is a life-threatening illness especially the gruesome type 1 which I seem to have - I am feeling as though (because I have been well now for a while), people are forgetting and failing to appreciate any of this.
It is a horrifying illness which torments and incapacitates the sufferer immeasurably ; I cannot work normally. I may never have another relationship because of it. Women don’t have children because of it. You have to make enormous sacrifices.
NO one appreciates this, not even the doctors who are still being USELESS and not making any attempt to help me get my repeat prescriptions on the NHS....For God's sake.
And it's all trapped in the unconscious - thanks you ******s
What's not helping my cause is that I have been noting down my dreams (YES I can finally dream again now I'm off that poisonous and extremely damaging antipsychotic crap Quetiapine).
I've been doing this for the sake of 'unconscious mind analysis' and I have this recurring one where I'm being forcibly restrained and bulldozed by a team of asshole nurses and HCA's in a mental ward - I wonder why?!!!
The trauma they put you through with their 'treatment' literally scars people for life - last night I dreamt they were forcing me to take Ablify - I would honestly rather die than ever take any of that poisonous and extremely damaging shit EVER again.
Interestingly, Virginia Woolf had twenty stable years when she was not on any kind of medication, but in a supportive relationship when there were no World Wars or other catastrophes going on in her life -
Oh and she wasn't trying to publish at that time either - another massive trigger which repeatedly sent her rocketing into euphoria and then crashing into despair, depression and ultimately death when she drowned herself in the River Ouse.
And now I see why...
Is anyone going to f*&^ing help me? I have not the smallest hope.
If this writing venture fails then I will just go and buy a shed in the Dordogne and do my own thing... I'm actually pretty sick of people, the craziness of this stupid world, and the trashing of the environment especially in the UK and have come to the conclusion that:
I would infinitely prefer complete solitude, books, and the company of a miniature Dachshund.
That sounds like heaven to me anyway.
Perhaps that's what I will do?
Thanks for reading,