more about DFW

I found out a little more about David Foster Wallace's death. His father said he had been on anti-depressants for twenty years, but after experiencing side effects, he went off them in June 2007. Then they tried to find something else that would work for him, another antidepressant, but nothing worked. He had been in the hospital over the summer, more than once, and had received electroshock therapy. Nothing worked. After more than a year of this mess, he probably felt as if he had never been happy, or, at the very least, would never be happy again.

I feel bad for his wife, coming home to find him that way. It's so grisly; I couldn't do it to someone I loved or even liked. Wouldn't the face turn purple? And it would hurt. I know that when we are depressed, we don't actually mind hurting ourselves so much, but that would REALLY hurt. No. No, there are easier ways. If I had to do it, for some unimaginable reason, I would take the easy way out. Little pastel pills, or fumes, or gases. No broken bones or blood--or burning, thanks. If I had to. But I don't have to, and I don't want to, and I won't.

David Foster Wallace was widely acclaimed as a genius. This sort of thing always makes me jealous, though to be fair, I am not a genius and I do not deserve to be called one. So I asked myself, which would you rather be: a dead genius, like Wallace, or a reasonably intelligent writer who lives out her natural life in contented obscurity? Now, you would think that this would not be a difficult choice, and it isn't, but I am surprised at how grudgingly I give up laurels I have not earned and am unlikely to get. Some part of me really wants to make a contribution to the world of letters. I tell myself I have no ambition, because that's how it seems. But it is not really true. What I lack is discipline.

I am going to try to take something useful away from this sad story. I will push myself to write, because I can. Because I will wake up tomorrow and because ... well, Christopher said he keeps working because he believes he has a gift and that is what he's supposed to do about it.

I believe I have a gift, too.