This letter, and the response, almost made me weep. Seriously. I'm a writer, like Cary, not an actor, but all artistic needs are similar in their ways, aren't they?

I, too, fought the urge to write fiction for years, mostly because I feared the criticism of others. So I wrote a masters thesis about Iris Murdoch, because I could and figured I'd be good at it, because it didn't really matter that much to me. It won an award at my university. Then, I moved on to writing non-fiction articles for various motorsports publications, because I knew most of the other writers were gearheads--lovely people, but usually not writers first--and I figured I'd be good at it because, again, it didn't really matter that much to my soul. During all of this, for years, I struggled with office job after office job--I was good at those too, because they didn't really matter--and told myself, periodically, that I should just tell the Fiction Writing Demons in my head to shut up because you can't make a living at that and besides, you probably aren't that good at it anyway. Just be a good manager and forget about it. Just like the LW.

(I should say, I took up the *teaching* of writing, part-time, as a hobby. "Just for fun," I said. So see, my subconscious wouldn't let it go. One should really pay more attention to oneself.)

It worked, for awhile. Then, I thought my ship had come in: I got a job in my "office" field, writing technical documents! Perfect! An office drone that had "writer" in her title!

Except that I had a nervous breakdown. Not *just* because of the technical writing--which I was woefully unsuited for--but I do believe that had a lot to do with it.

So I quit, and got a lower-paying, less-stressful office job that does not intrude, at all, into my personal life--but that does pay the bills quite handily. So that I can come home, every night, and write. A novel. That isn't very good right now, but the story speaks volumes to me, every minute of every day, and assures me that it will tell itself, if only I am patient, and give it time to reveal itself. I love it, even when it frustrates me. I feel like I'm a whole person, finally (oh, and I still teach, part-time, because teaching others how to write teaches me how to write too.) Even if it doesn't get published. Who cares? I'm doing it. Because I can. Because I must.

So, dear LW, do it. There is no need for your life to be one thing or the other. Engage your passion, live it any way you can. You have to. It's what you were put here to do.

Break a leg. ;-)

A beautiful article, poetically written, very vivid.

But for god's sake, Salon editorial staff:

It's "throes" (not "throws"--second paragraph). And it's "Lexapro" (not "Lexipro"--third paragraph).

I see more and more of these types of careless errors lately, which is quite disappointing. Is everything OK up there in the City?

I think Cary gave a good answer here. In addition, what I realized after about a year of therapy for anxiety/depression is that there isn't necessarily one of those AHA! moments with therapy. It's not like taking an antibiotic that makes your infection go away. What I've discovered, slowly, is that I'm no longer engaging in those self-destructive, ever-circling behaviors that led to desperate anger and self-loathing and bouts of worrying so intense that I'd forget where I was. I realize, now, that I've internalized the guidance that I got from my therapist.

It's not sudden, like a jack-in-the-box jumping up. It's more like a brass rubbing that takes shape the more you drag your crayon over the paper, slowly revealing itself toward a moment of clarity.

Good luck. Keep at it. You can do it. Have faith in yourself. It can--and does--get better. But, like Cary said, it takes effort. It also helps if you can find a quiet place (even if just in your mind) to escape to, and remind yourself that things won't always be this way.

A cheap rip-off of Nicholson Baker's brilliant novel, The Fermata, except without the over-the-top, hysterically funny sex bits, or the clever existential realization.

Hmm, last one didn't post, so let's try again (sorry, everyone):

As Cary suggests. Cherishing the feeling doesn't mean you have to act on it--in fact, you most decidedly shouldn't--but it is just these intense feelings from which great art springs. Think _Anna Karenina_, _Madame Bovary_, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and just about anything by W.B. Yeats.

Of course, a lot of crap also springs from these feelings, but anyway. It feels good to use the energy to create, rather than destroy.