The rather more personal problem I have with the myth of the suffering artist arises when I meet young and new writers and find they are intent upon suffering, rather than writing. It can seem that wearing black, moping, engineering car-crash relationships and generally being someone nobody wants to sit beside on the bus could be a shortcut to writing success. Surely, when so many writers seem bathed in fascinating disasters and have such wonderful scars, then scars and disasters would save us effort, focus and the development of our craft? Well, no. In fact, without effort, focus and development, we won't have the skills to present even rosy sunsets and charmingly eccentric families with saleable adventures to the waiting reader, never mind the kind of stuff that wracks the soul and is personal and precious and must be handled with care and precision and respect.
This sort of thing always reminds me of this.