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.


Written by

Writer. Runner. Marine. Airman. Former LGBTQ and HIV activist. Former ActUpNY and Queer Nation. Polyglot. Middle-aged, uppity faggot.

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