People who write are basically miserable. Why? It’s partly because they’re spies & traitors, always taking down notes and using people for material. Betraying them by fixing them with words, as you would pin a butterfly. There’s an extent to which writing kills by fixing things.
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This neurotic desire is an avoidance of reality. Proust is the best example of this, writing away in his cork lined room and expecting to die every minute. The more pathological writers fix their unhappiness and despair in words, forcing themselves to re-experience it.
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The neurosis can also manifest in world-building of the fantastical sort. A surprising number of authors write because they don’t like the world, Burroughs said this. They build a world they can inhabit.
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This can lead to drinking or drug taking as a means to escape neurosis—the desire to escape reality, and also to escape the miserable neurotic re-experience of reality.
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