The truth is that I always thought it would be cool to be a brooding, isolated person who was misunderstood by everyone. There may have been times in my teens and early twenties when I actually practiced this artifice on people with the convenience of being able to revert to my happiness.
I had a very good childhood, and that never boded well for me as a writer. I needed to have a terrible childhood, been abused or something. I needed a tragedy early on to be a good writer, because in my mind, if there was no tragedy, there was no conflict, and thus (thus?) nothing to write about. If there was no family tragedy, then I’d have to drink, snort coke, do (do?) speed, drop (I know this one is correct) acid, or something. I wasn’t interested in any of that, either.
So now that I got my wish, experiencing all of it genuinely, hearing from people of different degrees of importance in my life that I am aloof, an asshole, that I isolate myself, I’m unfriendly, moody, unreliable, a terrible host, bad friend, that I exhibit the behaviors of an alcoholic (Yes, someone recently said that to me despite the fact that I drink one beer every two or three weeks, but I think I’ve figured out why I come across this way.) — now that it’s all too real, and that there’s nothing I can do to revert to my strong roots in happiness, it is remarkably and unmistakably painful.