Is Writing a Form of Madness? Portrait of a Writer

I was listening to the radio last night. There was a man who previously worked in a psychiatric ward being interviewed. He said that madness was anyone who for some reason couldn’t cope with the day-to-day reality of life or that the reality of life couldn’t cope with them.

I can relate to this. I am never quite sure if it’s me that can’t cope with life or if it’s life that can’t cope with me? Either way, I find that most days life simply interferes with my writing. Or perhaps it’s my writing that interferes with life.

Things like earning money, paying bills, buying food and eating are a sheer irritation for me and I’d happily live without them. Other things like home repairs, walking the dog and going to the supermarket are forms of torture. They eat into my headspace and steal from valuable writing hours.

Does that make me mad?

It goes further. Most people spend their lives searching for their other half. That perfect relationship, that elusive other, that person who makes them feel whole. I’ve tried this. I’ve dabbled in the relationship game.

For the first few weeks, it usually works out fine. I guess this is what they call the ‘honeymoon period.’ Once that phase is over I find my ‘other’ wants more time than I have available. While ‘other’ wants to do things like hang out, watch TV, enjoy each other’s company, I want to be alone so I can write.

By the time another few weeks pass, I am so guilt-ridden due the lack of time I’ve spent writing, I resent the ‘other’ so much I’m close to meltdown. By then I know I need to remove myself. I could just walk away. But no. That would be the actions of a sane person.

Instead I cause problems. I make it difficult for ‘other’ to be around me, so much so that they end up resenting me. Eventually they tire so much of my short temper, they run a mile.

At first I’m hurt. Then I return to my writing schedule. After a few weeks, I feel normal again. I am not going to lie and say I never feel lonely. But at least the guilt of not writing is gone. I find loneliness is much easier to live with than guilt.

I suppose my madness manifests itself most strongly in my attitude to work. The whole world is set up on the basis that people work to generate money, earn a living and buy stuff. People get up in the morning. They go to work. At the end of the workday, they return home and back to their real lives.

I work from home, so firstly I never go anywhere. There are no set hours to my work schedule. Writing is my life. I do it all day long and sometimes into the night. I don’t have a life to return home to. I have a laptop. It is my life.

Yes, I realise that things would be much easier if I had a ‘normal’ working life. For starters, I’d probably earn a decent wage. I’d be able to buy food, invite friends round, cook meals. I’d interact with the world.

I’d pay bills. I’d wouldn’t be constantly wondering if this will be the week that the electricity gets cut off or the dog goes hungry. I’d buy that new blanket for the bed. I’d buy that new pair of shoes I need.

The thing is I just don’t have the interest or the inclination to think about these things. No doubt if I had kids, I’d be different. If I had kids it’d be impossible for me to be so selfish. I’d be forced to think about things other than how can I finish that chapter or edit that short story or make a poem from that encounter.

The truth is these are the only things I care about. When I fall asleep at night sentences swarm my brain. They are the lines I need to finish a poem. They are the start of the chapter I’ve been thinking about. They are the finish to a short story that’s been plaguing me.

Because the words plague me. They are with me first thing in the morning. They are with me throughout the day. They are the last thing I think of before I fall asleep. They haunt my dreams.

My writing world is a private one. None of my fiction has been published and Penguin still don’t know I exist. This gives others free reign to think how I spend my time is sheer madness. I regularly have to deal with comments such as, ‘that writing game is a waste of time’ and ‘why don’t you get a real job.’

I hear those comments but I block them out. They are missing the point. They don’t make me write faster or try harder. Writing is not like that. You can’t rush it. It simply is what it is and when it’s ready, I’ll know.

In the interim I’ll continue to live like a pauper and appear a little mad to the outside world. My successes will be tiny personal breakthroughs but I’ll never give up. I don’t think there is anything mad about being persistent.

Here’s the really mad bit. When I don’t write, particularly my novel (I’ve been working on it for years, is that mad?) I go a bit loopy. I feel disconnected. My mood is sour. I stop eating. I can’t sleep. Nothing makes sense. Life has no purpose. I go bi-polar.

Conclusion? I’m probably totally bonkers. But if I was truly mad, I’d be a genius. Sadly there is nothing genius about me. I take solace in this. It means, I’m probably quite sane. I’m just a writer.