All writers are a little bit mad.

(Or, at least the ones worth reading seem to be).

Virginia Woolf put stones in her pockets and walked into a lake.

Charles Bukowski drank himself to the point that he began bleeding out of his asshole.

Ernest Hemingway put a shotgun to his head.

Sylvia Plath stuck her head in an oven and fell asleep.

And, Hunter S. Thompson, wrote a note that read “Relax –– this won’t hurt a bit” before meeting a fate similar to Hemingway’s.

While I never want to romanticize writing and madness and suicide –– and I’m certainly generalizing when I write that ‘all writers are a little bit mad’ –– we can learn a tremendous amount about living from these mavericks that seem to have both lived and died hard.

One of my favorite lines of all time is an excerpt written by the latter of the above writers, Hunter S. Thompson…

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!”

I think it’s a beautiful reminder to live, really live, fully, and at times recklessly because while we only get one body, we also only get one life.

But, I digress.

By Cole Schafer.