Myth

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 2, 2017

We all subscribe to bullshit, it’s true.  Be it the American Dream, religion, the nuclear family, marriage, money, altruism, yoga, politics, what Hollywood sells, the sheer phoniness of social media, etc.  The list of bullshit that we think leads to happier lives is endless.  I’ve long rejected all of it.  Debunking your religion, your 9-5 work week, your relationships that are more about practicality than love, your shallowness, your complete and utter fear of death and how it prevents you from life.

But we all subscribe to bullshit.  And that’s okay.  I think it’s okay as long as what you’re signing up for is what you believe and want, and not what you’ve been brainwashed to believe since you were a kid, by your family, by society, by your fear.  Sometimes our bull shit is what makes us happy.  And if your bullshit brings you some form of serenity, don’t let me shit on it.

I too subscribe to bullshit.  Not yours.  Not likely, anyway.  But there are myths I whole heartedly embraced.  Not one that brings me any joy, whatsoever.  I believed the true artistic writer must suffer, in solitude, to be anything, or create anything worth while.  Artists tend to be self loathing raging narcissists who believe they are the exceptions to the rules.  As much as I pride myself as an individual and an outcast, I am no different there.  Even when I first moved to my little studio apartment, I was enthralled by visions of myself writing and drinking alone, a little sad, a little lonely, but productive no less.  My best friend once described my apartment as “exactly what you’d think a loner and a writers apartment would look like.”  He did not mean this as a compliment.  I took it as such.

So, the bullshit I subscribed to is that the artist must suffer.  Maybe it’s because I was so heavily influenced by writers who struggled with many demons.  Or maybe it was because I had demons of my own I was tired of fighting, so I created a unity with.  The only person to say is me.  But now, I could tell you it’s a myth.  It’s a myth that the artist has to miserable.  Sure, I continue to write in whatever my mental state is, and lately, well, let’s just say it’s been turbulent.  But, if there’s one advantage a writer has, it’s that I have notebooks, and documents, and stories, and scripts, I’ve created over years.  And I go back and sift through them on occasion.  Looking for lost gems.  Or looking for lost memories.  Maybe lost feelings.  And they are there. Sometimes not so obviously, but hidden between the words, or even how awful my handwriting is.  There is evidence and one thing that is so obvious to me:

My best work is not done when I am depressed.  My best work is done when I am happy.  But you still have to work when you’re sad or angry, and especially when you don’t feel like it.   Those are the most important times to write.  There are thoughts and feelings there that are necessary to express.  But ultimately, the artist who is smiling, who is loved, who wants to wake up and live will create their best work.  I now know this to be true.  And the fact that I’ve debunked my own myth scares the living shit out of me.