Posthuman Blues

Chris Wren lobs a much-needed glass of cold water in the face of the "Miserable, Angst-Ridden Artist" cliche.

It's true -- creativity isn't synonymous with depression. I'm probably guilty of helping perpetuate this myth. After all, I'm frequently angry and given to bouts of unbridled misanthropy. But it's not because of my creative life; if anything, the prospect of losing myself in a creative project (whether writing or reading a book -- and I consider the very act of reading an important co-creative endeavor) makes life bearable. It's not without its share of frustrations, but what isn't?

It's true, incidentally, that society isn't especially kind or forgiving when it comes to artists and intellectuals. This is indeed alienating, even daunting -- but somehow never as daunting as facing a blank sheet of paper (or, more often than not, the eggshell glow of a blank Microsoft Word template).

Fortunately, I relish the possibility of writing as often as possible. I'm working -- slowly -- on a new nonfiction book that continues to pique my enthusiasm. And I love blogging -- what a perfect venue for recreational narcissism. I take issue with those who dismiss it as a mere time-sink.

I think the key to creative success isn't so much surrounding oneself with like minds (which, unfortunately, can prove flatly impossible despite the best of intentions) but the ability to expunge all the nitwits who clutter our daily lives. Leave them to their televisions and churches. Stop hating them and learn to ignore them. (I have yet to conquer this skill. Nevertheless, I'm working on it -- because otherwise they've won, and the blight of mediocrity we inherit will be our own damned fault.)