I’m gonna fangirl-out just a little bit here, sorry if this gets uncomfortable, but I am a HUGE fan of depression. I’ve been chronically depressed for the majority of this sentient existence and I have found no greater comfort than wallowing in a sticky, purgatorius realm of self-loathing. Depression is the hot fudge and whipped cream on top of a decedent mental illness sundae (your family is nuts). This book tops it with a perfectly round, bright red cherry of affirmation that such behaviors should cease to be stigmatized and be accepted as an essential part of the creative process.
I found myself musing through the exercises with an holistic, pleasurable misery and wanton abandonment issues. Dylan Brody’s writing has squeegeed away from my third eye the years of caked-on (well-meaning) advice imposed by unscrupulous armchair psychologists. I can see clearly now the rain is here and I’m comfortable staring out the window in a tattered sweater, sipping my tea and contemplating death. There is no other way to make art that means something.
As president of the Dylan Brody fan club I just made up, I DEMAND his next novel be published ASAP! Or I shall bring the fiery wrath of internet nerd rage down on everyone responsible for denying the world such medicinal content!
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