That's an appropriately Halloween-y subject line, right? And it is relevant to what you're about to read, though that won't be evident immediately, because I'm going to start by saying that you might have read elsewhere on the internet that I've been reading a lot of John Green lately, for a piece that isn't out yet and won't be for a little while, probably, sorry.

Most people know one thing about John Green, which is that he wrote that YA novel about the kids with cancer, and some other ones, and he's, like, smart? He writes smart YA? That is, unless you're in the YA world, in which case you probably know more about John Green than you really want to, including that he's a Certified Problematic Fave-- aren't we all-- but really, actually, this whole thing did kind of suck. I don't know; I understand people's frustration with the omnipresent juggernaut of him and his success, and certainly the way he gets written about as some kind of inventor or savior or whatever by the lamestream media, but I also think he's handled his success and the attendant scrutiny approximately as well as anyone can be expected to. This isn't to say that he's handled it well, full stop, only that I believe that he is making a very honest effort.

So, anyway, one of the other things I know about John Green is that he has OCD and anxiety and depression; even if I didn't know these things, I probably could have guessed them from (re)reading four of his books in a row. They're just so clearly the product of a particular kind of mind, antic and verbal, or, in his own words, "recursive and obsessive." At one point I wrote in a margin, it's sort of embarrassing to read so much of someone's work like this, to see just how revealing it really is. A lot of novelists don't produce rapidly enough-- or don't have books you can read in rapid enough succession-- to see their tics and preoccupations quite so clearly, but let me tell you, if you slam Looking for Alaska through Fault in Our Stars in two weeks you come out feeling like, if nothing else, you have spent some time with the dude.

Which is maybe why I was so struck and am still by this admission from a talk he gave at a convention-- Nerdcon Stories, organized by his brother, Hank-- a few weeks ago. In it he relays the stories of three of the depressive breakdowns he's had in his life, and then he says:

"So, okay. Here’s the thing: The Alaska Implosion happened because I did not yet know what was wrong with me. The Sprite Debacle happened because stuff happens, because sometimes when you have a chronic illness you get sick. And last year happened because I went off my medication to try to write a novel, because I bought into the dangerous romantic lie."

 

You guys. You guys. John Green went off his medication to try to write another book. That is the stupidest and most relatable and most terrifying thing I've ever heard. Like everyone else I talk a good game about how being rich and famous and successful doesn't solve all of anyone's problems while secretly believing that wealth and fame and success would certainly solve mine. I just-- the idea of being so fucking scared that you can't do it anymore, you can't do it, that you're willing to take that risk with yourself-- I mean, it's not suicide, but it's not unrelated. The moment at which the book becomes more important than your self, or maybe you forget that it's only ever your self that has gotten the books written. When you will give up anything to be able to do the work again. Sacrificing your hard-earned peace and stability because you're so certain you owe it to the world to be productive. 

He also notes in his speech that he wrote nothing during the first two breakdowns, and during the most recent one, "nothing that made sense." Medication isn't the answer for everyone, and I know that for some it is dulling or exhausting in a way that short-circuits the writing process. But it's also true that I am, god willing, a few weeks away from a first draft of a new book, something that eluded me completely for a year and a half while I tried to figure out how to stay alive every day when I was unmedicated and severely depressed. A few years ago when things were acutely bad I managed to write 55,000 words of a book I ended up having to throw out because it sucked so much.

I said to T. recently that I wanted to kiss whoever formulated Lexapro on the mouth, and I stand by that sentiment. I don't doubt John Green felt the same way at some point about whatever he's on. The idea that he found something he needed worse than he needed to feel okay is profoundly terrifying.

That, to me, is a much more convincing argument for the relationship between art and madness than any of the ones I've heard from people who are too scared to climb out of their dark to see what's on the other side of it. The idea that the lack of art drives you to desperation: knowing that it's the thing people will give their minds over to get back when it's gone. 

-

Tomorrow! McNally Jackson! Me, New York!

The only problem with sending these is that if I haven't published anything in the last week I feel very compelled to account for myself, even and maybe especially if they are in part about the idea that not-writing is a thing that just has to be borne. But like, I am writing! I'm working! I am! As it happens, though, mostly right now on longer-term projects. I did get my galleys of GRACE AND THE FEVER recently though, which led to this stunning realization:

 

If you want a copy to match your Hanson poster, you can pre-order it here.