I often worry that I’m not bonkers enough to be a Serious Artist / Writer. I don’t have syphilis like Shakespeare, I’m not a dope fiend like Coleridge and I’m certainly not going to cut off my ear any time soon. (For vanity’s sake if for nothing else.)
I’m not sure that I suffer enough from delusions of grandeur, I’m too easily satisfied by activities such as movie-watching and Zumba. I had a really love-filled childhood, with no memorable trauma – apart from the time the music system conked out when I was supposed to be singing at a public event age 7ish (but that’s another story). I got loads of hugs, enough independence, support at every turn.
So what hope is there for me? My life is far too good to ever amount to anything brilliant. It’s the mad, bad-childhood people that grow up to become geniuses, right? Not sushi-loving, frisbee-on-Saturday, meditators..?