The best part about therapy is realizing how crazy you are.
And by "crazy" I mean "just like everyone else without the balls to admit the shit they think/deal with/fantasize about."
Everyone already thinks writers are eccentric, which is the fancy word for nuts. And I claim to be a writer. Or I pretend to be one. Or I want to be one. Or I want to figure out a way to slither into Stephen King's head and live there, like a parasite. And see how that shit works itself out onto paper.
What I'm saying is that therapy is good for a writers' soul. So is craziness.
I just got back from the river where I *accidentally* chugged out 950 words of a story I'm "working on," like, completely by accident. BY ACCIDENT.
Well, by avoidance, really.
I got home from the shrink's office, I'm going to have to call her Dr. Crazy Palms, and I was like, "Shit, all the stuff I'm supposed to *actually* think about is too much work. Time to write."
Therapy is already paying for itself.
That's when you know your session was hard: when writing is easier.