On March 26, 1995, I published the following in The Washington Post under the title, "The Writer: A Happy Guy":
IN 1968, A promising young science fiction writer named Thomas M. Disch wrote an autobiographical story called "The Masters of the Milford Altarpiece." Noted at the time for its in-group references to other SF writers, it's still a fine sketch of the passions that animate a writer's life.
Jealousy, for one. The narrator, Tom, is at a writing conference with his good friend, Jim, who is all of 23. "For his age he is fantastically successful," reports Tom. "I envy his success, though it isn't a personal thing -- I can envy almost anyone's. I need constant reassurance. I crave your admiration."
At the end of the story, a couple of decades has passed. Jim comes to visit. The years have been kind to him, Tom notes. "Your books have enjoyed both popular and critical success . . . The youth of the nation acclaim you and have no other wish than to pattern their lives on yours."
"And you, Tom?" Jim asks.
"I've been happy too in my own small way," Tom says. "Perhaps life did not bring altogether everything that I once expected, but it has given me . . . your friendship."
As fiction, this is pretty funny, but as prophecy it was lousy. Jim -- presumably modeled on James Sallis -- was inactive as a writer for many, many years before recently resurfacing with a mystery series. Tom, meanwhile, went on to become one of the most acclaimed SF writers -- three of his novels are included in David Pringle's respected survey, Science Fiction: The Hundred Best Novels -- and in recent years a writer celebrated for his range.
This, of course, is a problem. What readers want is more of the same, and many are the writers who have become millionaires by hewing to this formula. Doing many things, even if you do them well, produces a blur in the reader's mind.
"No defined readership has taken me to its bosom," Disch admits. "A lot of individual critics have, but it's never coalesced into an image. I can't complain -- images are marketable, but the degree I've eluded one is a strength. I've got too many moves to easily classify what I do and who I am."
Take a look at the "also by" page on his new novel, The Priest: A Gothic Romance -- a timely tale about an unrepentant pedophile priest who is being blackmailed and, even worse, having nightmares about a past life. Eleven novels are listed, ranging from the nuclear anxiety fantasy Echo Round His Bones to Clara Reeve, a Victorian pastiche. There are also seven books of poetry, five short story collections, three children's books, four libretti and plays and even a work of interactive software. A volume of Disch's criticism will appear later this year; he was down here to cover the NEA hearings for Harper's. Only John Updike could claim to be as well-rounded.
But the most astonishing thing about the 55-year-old Disch, something virtually no other American writer has ever admitted to me, is this: He's happy.
He appears surprised this is surprising. "If someone's earning enough money, and they're busy with their work, and they have enough work to do, and have good energy, usually they're not going to be too upset at not being famous."
Maybe, but one of the reasons writers are never happy is they, like most of the rest of the nation, feel that no matter how much money they have, it isn't enough.
"One of the advantages gay writers have is they don't have kids," Disch points out. "If you give hostages to fortune, you damn well better arrange your life so you can bring them up properly. And that means sacrificing a freelance career."
He adds that writers who are parents too often let their children know that they sacrificed their muse to provide for the child's well-being, which naturally complicates the relationship, often tragically. "I know very few writers who are good parents."
Another reason for Disch's contentment is his work as a critic: "I can say what I think all the time. It's a wonderful restorative to calm the spirit."
Still, many critics are cranky souls. Disch's professed happiness probably has more to do with his innate enthusiasm. "You have to be passionately devoted to the ripest fruits of civilization. It's for you to respond to them, not them to you."
Etc.
Tom Disch killed himself Friday, a victim of bad health and massive unhappiness. His self-destruction is so recent his Wikipedia page says he is still alive.
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