There are times when writing is difficult, and it’s almost painful to make even one sentence come out “right,” and every word is cause for anxiety, guided as it is by uncertainty. This difficulty is often accompanied by a sense of futility, a sort of nihilism born to the idiom of writers. How many writers were depressants? Fewer than people imagine, but more than we like to admit.
Woolf walked into the Ouse, Hemmingway shot himself. They were both around 60. Wallace hung himself. Kane hung herself. Kane was 28. Somehow Kane seems worse, but maybe life isn’t so precious as to warrant overstaying. Though not a writer, Judas hung himself, and how many countless others have died by suicide?
Maybe they, too, found a place where it was hard to write, and a life without writing, for a writer, is worse than death; It is a living hell, where words lose all meaning and beauty, and no shuffling of marks can create a single intelligible sound. A writer only stops writing when they are dead, but what they’ve written lingers on long after them. Is that a blessing or curse? Perhaps ironic, that a writer is never known for what they are writing, but what they have written.