The Miserablist: You Don't Have to Suffer to Write

By Dell Smith

Years ago I moved into an apartment with my then girlfriend. I had my own room for writing. I had a big desk where I set up my new Brother word processor. I had the perfect job situation for a writer; I left for work at noon or one in the afternoon, giving me the morning to write. But I wrote nothing all those months I lived in a domestic slumber.

This was a problem. I thought my inability to compose was because I felt, if not ecstatically happy, at least satisfied in life; complacent. Complacency breeds boredom. Good writing does not come from boredom. Real, honest writing can only be born of suffering; from addiction, from the depths of depression, from heartbreak, from loneliness. Or so I thought. This idea must have originated from the drunken machismo of male literary icons like Hemingway and Bukowski whose literary fame romanticized and validated their addictions.

When things with that girlfriend didn’t work out, I moved into my own studio apartment. I was lonely, worn down from the failed relationship, and drinking alone. But I started writing every day. It was crap—the warped bones and craggy muscle of novels that never came together. But still I was writing. Anything was better than not writing.

I started dating another girl. With this girl I lost sleep, and I became miserable in love. We made better friends than a couple. And I don’t remember doing much writing. I was unhappy with her, but couldn’t stand to not be with her. I listened to lots of Radiohead, The Smiths, Mark Eitzel, and Idaho.

When that relationship eventually, mercifully ended, I found being a solo act fueled a resurgence in my writing. I finished my first novel. And I joined a writing group at the Barnes & Noble in Burlington. We met every couple weeks and each time I brought a new story for critique. During this time I got my first story accepted for publication.

After a couple of busy, lonely years sequestered in the ‘burbs, I met Liz, my future wife, through Yahoo personals. We fell in love through email, letter, and phone calls. She loved my writing—a relief. For our first date we met at Out of Town News in Harvard Square in July ’99, and from there spent every weekend together. By the fall, Liz and I became more serious about a future together. I wrote only an occasional story and thought about my next novel, but in the background I worried this new long-term relationship would have a negative impact on my writing. I wanted to stay with Liz but I didn’t want to lose my writing.

We moved in together in February the next year. A week after the move I started writing my second novel. Moving in with my future wife (we married a year and a half later) kicked me into gear instead of holding me back. It was a thorough, complete relief to know that I could write while in a solid, adult relationship. Now Liz is my first reader. She’s supportive and honest in her critiques. I couldn’t ask for a better partner and friend. And I don’t have to be miserable to write. Even to write about men miserable in love.

Originally appeared on Beyond the Margins on March 16, 2010