“Prolific artists scare the hell out of me. How is it they crank out so much, so often? I envision the writer huddled over a typewriter, the painter peering into the canvas, the musician stroking a guitar-- all into the wee hours of the morning, skin sweaty and pale from lack of sleep and sunlight. Their only company is a bottle of whiskey and maybe a lazy dog. I think pain. I think isolation.
But”
