In response to my carrying on about reduced productivity, QB left a link to this Guardian article on Woolf’s writings on illness, and the impact of infirmity on her life and work. It reminded me of an article I read somewhere years ago on the frequency of extended illness among successful creative types, mostly in early childhood. Warhol always comes to mind as an example. In the Diaries, he discusses his childhood bouts with St. Vitus’ dance, which demanded long periods of bed rest. He entertained himself by reading celebrity rags, tracing and drawing the stars within. It makes perfect sense in the context of his later work, or vice versa.

I know that my childhood sickliness has everything to do with who I am now. I had spinal meningitis at two and recurring ear infections thereafter. I’m not sure how accurate my memory is, but I seem to recall being sick about as often as I was well between the ages of 2 and 6. I spent a ton of time in bed with all sorts of books, and an equal ton of time sprawled on the floor or couch with a blanket, scribbling away and drawing. The art projects may not have made me an artist, but they did give me a certain sensibility. The words, on the other hand, took over my life. I read everything I could get my hands on, age appropriate or not, and eventually begin to write my own things as well. I’ve written steadily ever since, and I don’t think I’ve been without reading material in at least twenty years, having picked up the habit of taking a book along everywhere early on. Several years before I quit Industry to be a full time student, an associate and I were making a three-hour commute to a meeting. We asked each other what we couldn’t live without. He said music, and I said language. He thought I was crazy. I couldn’t imagine any other answer. All of that eventually led to here, where words and their arrangement and contexts are really all I do.

Proust, of course, relied on bed rest as a central impetus to his work, and the Guardian piece suggests that Woolf wasn’t all that far behind him, at least periodically. I don’t plan on taking things that far. I do think it might be kind of convenient after I get my strength up a bit more, though. This semester is a rare semester, because all of my courses align precisely with my interests. The readings are really pushing my thinking along. I have an article mapped out in my mind. The conditions should be sort of perversely optimal for really getting something done. Right now there’s too much pain and not enough energy, but soon...

*Not that I would compare myself to Warhol. Or Woolf. or Proust.