Once The Confessions of a Recovering Writing Addict hits bookstores, I’ll be contractually obligated to endure the book tour circuit. My ideal stop? The Dick Cavett Show. Never mind that it no longer exists—I refuse to let reality get in the way of my delusions of grandeur.
There I’ll be, perched in a velvet chair, resplendent in a custom-tailored suit that exudes effortless literary gravitas. Cavett, ever the urbane host, will hold up my book and, in his signature droll tone, read my opening line: “I’ve been given the most self-defeating assignment imaginable: I must write a book about my recovery from compulsive writing so that the telling of my recovery violates the terms of my sobriety.”
He’ll pause, shaking his head in slow-motion admiration, as if momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer genius of what he’s just read. Then, locking eyes with me, he’ll say, “Mr. McMahon, I can say with the utmost confidence that this is the most stunning opening line in the history of literature. I just can’t tell you what a privilege it is to have you here this evening.”
Not missing a beat, I’ll flash a knowing smile and reply, “Why thank you, Mr. Cavett, it is a pleasure to be here.”
And that, my friends, will be the apotheosis of my existence. At last, I will be whole, and I will never need to write anything again.
Of course, this will never happen. Cavett is 88 years old and long retired, and I have about as much chance of appearing on his show as I do of discovering a lost Hemingway manuscript in my garage. But what’s the point of being a recovering writing addict if I can’t indulge in the occasional vanity-fueled fever dream?
There’s something to be said for vanity. It fuels ambition, sharpens our skills, and occasionally tricks us into believing we’re on the brink of something great.
But there’s also a fine line between vanity and outright intoxication—the kind of fevered delusion that warps reality and blinds us to our own foolish pursuits. That line, precarious and often ignored, is summed up with brutal clarity by Lester Freamon in The Wire when he delivers a verbal gut punch to Jimmy McNulty, a cop too drunk on his own self-importance to see the inevitable crash ahead. Lester doesn’t sugarcoat it: “A parade? A gold watch? A shining Jimmy-McNulty-day moment, when you bring in a case so sweet everybody gets together and says, ‘Aw, shit! He was right all along. Should’ve listened to that man.’ The job won’t save you, Jimmy. It won’t make you whole, it won’t fill your ass up.”
Freamon’s words aren’t just for McNulty—they’re a public service announcement for every poor soul who believes that work, achievement, or applause will stitch together the holes in their existence. The writing demon, in particular, suffers from this same pathology. It whispers the same lie to every desperate novelist: that one book, the book, will be the great reckoning, the masterpiece that finally justifies the years of toil, obscurity, and rejection. That single, seismic literary triumph will be the author’s redemption arc, a vindication of every abandoned manuscript, every humiliating book-signing with three attendees (one of whom just needed to use the bathroom). The magnitude of this delusion is staggering.
Of course, if we define religion as an artist imposing their will on the culture so forcefully that they alter it for generations, then yes—certain artists have effectively founded religions. Take Sly Stone, whose music from the early ’70s didn’t just change the sound of funk, soul, and rock—it rewired the DNA of modern music entirely. His influence still echoes today, pulsing through the beats and harmonies of artists who weren’t even alive when There’s a Riot Goin’ On dropped. But did this cultural omnipresence make Sly Stone whole? Far from it. As Questlove’s documentary Sly Lives! (aka The Burden of Black Genius) reveals, Sly Stone’s genius was too expansive and untamed to be neatly packaged. Yet, when the world saw him as a prophet, they tried to shackle him to their own expectations.
Every political movement, every special interest group wanted to claim a piece of his vision, to make him their voice. But Sly wasn’t a mascot—he was an artist, too grand and complex to be hijacked by anyone’s agenda. The weight of that expectation crushed him.
And that’s the thing about cultural prophets—whether they’re musicians, writers, or even McNulty-level workaholics. The world cheers them on when they’re building their temples, but those same temples can become cages. The parade never comes. The gold watch doesn’t arrive. The moment of glorious, all-encompassing validation? It’s a mirage. And the writing demon, ever hungry, never learns.
Cinemorphosis 
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