Then I got to college. Sure, some literature classes were easier than others. However, what was most difficult was swallowing the truth of the lives of the writers I was learning about. Virginia Woolf? Kills herself in the river. Ernest Hemingway? Killed himself. Author of "The Yellow Wallpaper" Charlotte Perkins Gilman...killed herself. That's pretty much what I learned in one of my first college Lit courses. And it creeped me out. Writers were suicidal.
Suddenly the idea of writing novels and becoming famous didn't sound so glamorous. Surely that career would make me want to kill myself.
So here I sit being a journalist. I had kind of forgotten about all that suicide stuff and I really became a journalist because it fit my writing style better.
Then I read the New York Times today that confirmed my fear.
A story caught my eye because it was regarding Sylvia Plath. The story on Sylvia Plath (a great writer I studied at UD) killed herself (go figure) and I just now found out her son just killed himself recently.
Apparently Sylvia's son, Nicholas, hung himself in his home in Alaska. I also learned that Sylvia stuck her head in an oven to kill herself years ago. Sylvia divorced her husband because he was cheating on Assia Wevill. He eventually married Wevill. "Ms. Wevill, who had helped raise Nicholas and Frieda after Ms. Plath’s death, killed herself and her 4-year-old daughter, Shura. Ms. Wevill styled the murder-suicide in the same manner, using a gas stove."
That makes my stomach turn. Totally upsetting.
Many of them suffered from depression. I guess it ran in the family. I realize a lot of people probably commit suicide, but isn't it still kind of weird? Why are writers so depressed?
That's So Shway
This Onion article is hilarious. It's exactly how I feel when actors come into the audience during a performance.
No comments:
Post a Comment