There are few things as worthless as a writer in love. Perhaps a Fig Newton wearing a wristwatch is comparable. People might think that a writer in love has an advantage, as writing does need inspiration, and what’s more inspiring than love?
Poppycock, I say! Writers in love are lethargic, miserable beings. They aren’t inspired; they’re consumed. You know the thought of “two lovers being one”? Isn’t that the same as saying you’re half the person you used to be? Still, people can argue that a writer in love is a writer with his/her priorities set.
Hogwash, I say! Someone in love has their priorities skewed, I promise you. They don’t understand the importance of much, least of rationality. And if you can’t rationalize, then you can’t relate. This does occasionally work when you write to an audience who feels they can’t relate to anyone else, like teenagers. R.L. Stine, you whacked out fucking genius… He must be a great writer.
Poppywash, I say! He’s a marginal writer at best. But still way more famous than me. And the tragic part is he doesn’t even seem to be held captive by love’s hold; he’s just a bad writer. Not that I’m here to pick on Stine. There are thousands of shitty writers getting published all the time. I’m just mentioning him because I’ve owned and read many of his works.
Now some writers do have their best works come out of them when they are absorbed into a relationship. But this “best work” comes out of the most fucked up relationships, quite honestly. Or it comes when the two have split, and one’s ego must meet one’s humility – then let the writing begin. So being in love can be good for a writer – either your fucked up relationship gets you to type out fantastic manuscripts, or your heart-wrenching breakup does.
Hogcock, I say. Being in love is bad for being a writer. Still, right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
[What a shitty post this turned out to be. Man, I really am a bad writer now. – Author]