Your Elusive Creative Genius

I identify as a writer, and while crafting books is not just my profession but a profound lifelong passion, recent events have compelled me to reassess my connection with this work. The peculiar occurrence revolves around my memoir, "Eat, Pray, Love," which, unlike my previous works, unexpectedly soared to international bestseller status. Consequently, I find myself constantly confronted by well-meaning individuals who treat me as if I'm destined for inevitable failure. The questions persist: "Aren't you afraid you won't surpass that success? Are you concerned about creating another book that resonates with the world?"

Admittedly, these fears resonate with me, echoing the apprehensions I faced over two decades ago when I first expressed my desire to become a writer. Back then, people raised concerns about potential failure, rejection, and the prospect of a lifetime dedicated to a craft with no tangible success. Yes, I was afraid, and I still am, grappling with myriad uncertainties, including irrational fears like seaweed and other inexplicable anxieties.

In contemplating my apprehensions, I ponder why anyone should be expected to fear the very work they feel destined to pursue. What is it about creative endeavors that instills collective anxiety about each other's mental well-being, unlike professions such as my father's in chemical engineering? Chemical engineers, as a group, aren't burdened with the reputation of being alcoholic manic-depressives, unlike writers and creative individuals who, over the years, have been associated with mental instability.

I reflect on the historical toll creativity has taken on brilliant minds, leading to untimely deaths or, for those who survived, a profound struggle with their own gifts. Norman Mailer's statement about each book killing him a little more highlights this destructive relationship between creativity and suffering, a notion ingrained in our collective psyche. The question I pose is whether we should accept this idea or challenge it.

I express discomfort with the assumption that creativity and suffering are inherently linked, and I find it both odious and perilous. Encouraging creative minds to live rather than succumb to the anguish associated with their gifts becomes crucial. Currently in my early forties, with potentially several more decades of work ahead, I grapple with the realization that my greatest success might be behind me, given the unprecedented success of my previous book. The thought of this could lead me down a dark path of despair, and I am determined to avoid it.

To navigate this challenge, I contemplate adopting a protective psychological construct to maintain a safe distance between myself and the anxiety surrounding how my work will be received. In my quest for models, I turn to ancient Greece and Rome, where creativity was not believed to emanate solely from human beings but was considered a divine force. The Greeks referred to these divine attendants as "daemons," while the Romans called them "genius." This construct allowed the ancient artist to be shielded from excessive narcissism or undue blame for a failed work.

The Renaissance, however, marked a shift, placing the individual human at the center of creative endeavors and diminishing the role of divine entities. This shift, I believe, has burdened artists with an overwhelming responsibility to be the sole source of their creative genius, leading to immense pressure and a high toll on their mental well-being.

Drawing on contemporary examples, I share the transformative experience of musician Tom Waits, who, instead of internalizing the creative process, externalized it by addressing the source of inspiration. This shift allowed him to view the creative process as a collaboration with an external force, relieving him of the internalized torment associated with creative endeavors.

This perspective has influenced my own approach to writing, particularly during challenging times, such as when doubts and despair crept in while working on "Eat, Pray, Love." By acknowledging that the brilliance of the work is not solely my responsibility, I found solace and continued to show up for my part of the job.

In conclusion, I advocate for a shift in how we perceive the relationship between creativity and suffering. Instead of internalizing the burden of being the sole source of genius, we can consider creativity as a collaborative effort between the artist and an external force. This perspective not only eases the mental anguish associated with creative endeavors but also encourages creative minds to thrive.