Can happy, well-adjusted people live creative lives? Can they prove that the decades of artists who have fallen victim to the intricacies of their own minds aren’t the rule, but the once-cultural exception? Can we at once create mastery in our chosen art form while remaining level-headed and sane and sober?
It’s a question I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the past year or so. I saw the difficulty of writing with length and honesty and soul deepen as my happiness grew. The inspiration, it seemed, dissipated as my sadness did: I didn’t naturally seek answers or draw connections or make sense of things — because I didn’t have to.
Prior to training myself to be both happy and productive in my job and craft (most of which occurred throughout the process of writing a book) I realized that I was pulling from darker, seedier past thoughts and notions. If there’s anything we know, it’s…
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