Reviews for The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain

The average rating for The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain based on 2 reviews is 3.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2009-12-14 00:00:00 C David H Harris I am far too great a snob to read a book like this except by accident - I found it at the Salvation Army. Snobbery is its own punishment, however, and I found I could not put this book down. It was fascinating, and unlike virtually all the "popular science" books I have ever read, its author (a neurologist and Harvard professor) never condescends to the reader and yet never blinded me with science. The act of writing (and in the case of writer's block, not writing) is now just as weird to me as sex and social hierarchies among mallard ducks. This book really screwed me up. Now when I can't write, I try to feel whether my limbic system is glowing green or blue, just like a mood ring. Flaherty's writing style is a bit quirky, sometimes a bit breathless, but mostly very companionable. Her references, even for such an accomplished scientist, are almost funny - she read exactly six bazillion books to write this one. I'd love to talk to her about writer's block and anything else that comes up. I'd let her put electrodes on my feverish, ineffectual little brain.

Review # 2 was written on 2015-05-25 00:00:00 Helene Korbin It is midnight. You've been searching, searching, searching, down long hallways, past still and silent spaces, finding nothing, nothing, nothing, climbing flights and flights of stairs, moving through galleries of images, not what you're seeking, turning corners, crossing passageways, through blue rooms, through red rooms, rooms with cupboards, rooms with shelves, rooms with desks, rooms with drawers, in one drawer, a gleam of gold, just what you're seeking, you turn it over and over, you press it, you knead it, but no, it is too firm, too unyielding, you want gem-like, yes, but soft, soft enough to shape, you put it back, close the drawer, leave the room, try next door, in the gloom, a figure beckoning, an old woman, haloed hair, hands cupped, a gift she is offering, a gift, soft as an unlaid egg, you step back, you can't accept, too fragile, you back out, close the door, run up a stairs, the same stairs, no, different stairs, the door at the top wasn't there before, you open the door, a white room, a little bundle lying in the corner, you know what it is, you cannot approach, no, no, no, escape, escape, down the staircase, two by two, the staircase rising not descending, rising, rising, merging into a labyrinth, a yellowish gleam in the distance, an exit, around the corner, no, no, no, not yet, around the next, further on, how much further, you've turned this corner already, you've been turning in circles, the spooky light just out of reach, you hear drumming, louder and louder, heart beat thrumming, you crawl through a narrow canal, emerging into a shell-like opening, dawn is breaking, but you have nothing to show for your night of brain storming, nothing, nothing, nothing. Wait. In all the circling through the final passages, you've been kicking something ahead of you, something soft, pliable, amber-like, a wwixnanirniggot It will do, it will serve your present purpose. You mould it into a more recognisable shape, wwixningirnatgo wixgnani writong. Just another little tweak, there, you've finally unplugged the midnight block. You have created your very own Waxing on Writing