Why I Think Great Authors Die Young (Even though that can't be a rule)

It doesn't take a lot of thought to notice that a lot of literary geniuses we studied in high school were mentally ill, isolated, on the fringe of society. (Lit majors, forgive me. I only took approximately two liberal education classes, and I acknowledge my shortcomings.)

At first I thought that meant I couldn't write.  Clearly without psychedelics, addiction, ostracism or identity issues I would just fade into nothing. 

Next I worried I shouldn't write. What if pouring my heart onto a page was the risk I couldn't survive? What if the world was just filled with jackals, ready to rip me apart and drive me to drink? Maybe writing would kill me early.

And you know what? I'm still pretty sure those things are real concerns. I've been reading a lot about vulnerability being the birthplace of emotion lately, and it makes sense to me that excellent writing, vulnerability, and early death coincide.

There is a real chance that, never knowing the kind of courage that the diverse voices of today must summon to write and survive, that my work will fall by the wayside.  Instead of mourning that, I'm just going to go as hard into risky, emotive writing as possible, and cheer my fellows on when they do the same.

Because we're all taking our lives in our hands, one way or another.