Fine Line

This morning I've been working on a poem called "Fine Line" that's about the delicate balance between genious and insanity. It seems to be a fine line that many writers have crossed, if the high incidence of suicide among highly creative types is any indication (Hemingway, London, Plath, and a host of others).

The instructor for a writing course I just finished attributed the high incidence of suicide, and especially alcoholism, to the self-destructive nature of writing fiction. He spoke of the difficulty in returning to reality after countless hours submerged in fantasy.

I have long noted the high incidence of suicide among highly creative people and believed that only a fine line separates genius from insanity. But I'm not really sure if the reason lies solely in lengthy immersion in fantasy and the ensuing difficult return to reality. It may certainly be a large factor, but I think part of the cause of the creative person's mental problems may be a sense (however incomplete or unarticulated) that he is not using his gifts for God's glory. Deep down, something just doesn't feel right.

As Augustine wrote:
Fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te... (Confessions 1:1)