As far back as I can remember, I wanted to write. I’ve always loved stories and verse, and I’ve been dabbling with them, or more, since I learned to read in 1956.

And at least through adolescence, I operated beneath the image of the struggling artist. I bought the conceit that pain produces art, and I figured I’d better suffer some if I wanted to write well.

The deck was stacked against me. I was born to loving parents in a mentally healthy relationship. I am prudent and good with money. My addictions are not romantic: the best I’ve been able to come up with is a common old eating disorder. And my sun sign is Capricorn forgoodnesssakes – you can imagine how unexciting it was for me to respond to “What’s your sign?” when I enrolled at Berkeley in 1967.

So I had to develop my own argument. And sweetly, after acquaintance with personalities like Shakespeare and Bach and Twain, I noticed that the best creative output actually comes from health.

The common understanding is that art
comes out of suffering and thrives in pain.
The tortured artist, pictured with a heart
of passion, twisted psyche, maddened brain,
is nothing more than banal. Hear me now:
while pain may beg creative therapy
(catharsis is addictive), that’s not how
to make true art:
that’s true fallacy.

We carry in our bodies medicine
to manage stress and numb the wounded soul.
If we survive the instant pain, within
us coursed endorphin aid that dulled the whole
experience. Imagination sees
our passions clearer than our memories.