When I heard she picked drugs over writing, it broke my fucking heart.
Yes, that’s what she did. I know, I know. She says she’s gonna go off and write a book, and maybe she is. Maybe she’s just living the middle chapters of her own Permanent Midnight. Then again, addicts make all kinds of promises, and maybe we won’t hear from her again until she permanently fucks up and pulls an Edie Sedgwick.
I really hope she gets her shit together, because I want her to succeed. I want her to keep writing. She’s talented and self-aware, and those are two important ingredients, but she has to be a writer first, a seeker second, and a partier a distant third. Reverse that order and everything is fucked.
I know what I’m talking about here. Believe me. When you’re on the rooftop of Le Bain looking for shooting stars and smoking angel dust with your friends, it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re Hunter S. Thomson with tits. I’ve shoveled that glittery bullshit myself, but dammit, I always knew better than to romanticize an addiction.
You have to set a hard line. Never let it affect your work. Daylight is for getting shit done. That’s the only way to make it through the decade.