Monday, September 15, 2008

Infinite Jest No Longer

David Foster Wallace died this past weekend. He was a brilliant writer, and I suspect much of his fluid, exuberant prose was fueled by his mental illness, described as depression today in an obituary in the The New Tork Times.

Although having read his writing, I cannot help but think he was possibly bipolar.

After 20 years of relatively successful treatment, Mr. Wallace suffered from what we clinicians call 'Prozac poop-out', a term for when antidepressants of any type fail to work. Electroconvulsive therapy also proved futile, as did inpatient hospitalization.

My heart goes out to Mr. Wallace's family... and to all those touched by mental maladies. Which is, in the end, all of us.

The Writing... Thank God for the tedious nature of my current revisions. My father is currently going through serious medical problems of his own, which tends to consume my heart and mind. I'm unable to give much 'good' to my writing, although, of course, I write through my angst.

Peace, Linda


  1. Angst is ink in a writer's pen. It's nice to see you are still weaving writing with "mental magic." I wonder what you would define as "prozac" for writers.

  2. "Angst is ink in a writer's pen." Nice. And so true. Thanks for helping me find the silver lining. Given that, I hope there is no prozac equivalent. And how's your writing going, oh silent one? Peace, Linda