I was reading David Rakoff’s last essay in his last book about having cancer and wondering, hoping that this cancer wouldn’t kill him. It did. His writing is slyly brilliant. Sneaks up on you. He’s also a kindred negative spirit:
Creativity demands an ability to be with oneself at one’s least attractive, that sometimes it’s just easier not to do anything. Writing… always always only starts out as shit: an infant of monstrous aspect; bawling, ugly, terrible, and it stays terrible for a long, long time, sometimes forever.
Maybe you can figure out where my head is at.