Some say that great works of art require obsessive genius. Maybe that’s not always true, but it’s often true.
I wanted to tell a story about producing that sort of work from the perspective of a jilted and jealous lover.
In a happy story, perhaps the lover would be thrilled to have contributed to the creation of a work of sublime beauty and importance. But I think in real life (as perhaps with Rimbaud and Verlaine) the sacrifice made for obsessive creation is personally toxic and destructive.