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Authors: Preston David Bailey
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the “Dr.” in front of his name. It was ambiguous — a Doctor of Philosophy, a PhD, or a doctor that supposedly heals the sick. Either will do. Take your pick. You just couldn’t pick both.
I need a doctor, he thought.
Or a drink.
Crawford frequently thought about his own advice — the same advice that had made him a fortune — but he only believed it while he was making it up, and probably not even then. Stop negative behavior and face life on its own terms and live a happy life forever and ever. Uh huh.
But the content hadn’t changed much over the years, only the way it was composed. Since the completion of his second book, Self-Worth , Crawford began to notice an odd relationship between his writing and his behavior. Increasingly, the writing of these feel-good books made him feel bad, creating a depression that would last for weeks, sometimes months. It was starting to impede the writing process until Crawford ultimately worked out a deal with himself. He had to “postpone” the disparaging thoughts and depression until after the work was completed, bribing himself with the promise of a nice long bender once it was done.
It took writing Self-Respect before Crawford became comfortable with this arrangement. Perhaps he just learned to live with it, but it also made the drinking binge that followed much longer and more extreme.
Then he began to believe that the awareness of this pattern was going to drive him mad. Each book was more successful than the last, creating high expectations for the next in the series. And after each book was published, the drinking relapse was markedly worse, making the hole deeper and deeper. So he rationalized the situation, telling himself that his experiences fed his “art.” He would dry out and talk to his wife about “calling the muse,” even though the drunkenness came after the fact. Eventually he would get sober and write a book about how to get happy and feel good. And after that he would be disgustingly drunk again.
“Any writer who says he writes 12 hours a day is full of shit,” he told his editor, Martha Ginsberg, on the phone one night, just after falling off the wagon the day before.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “It certainly isn’t impossible.”
“You know what I mean, Martha.”
Martha had edited all four Self Series books with such remarkable speed and independence that Crawford often wondered why she didn’t write her own self-help books. She almost never called Crawford, even to discuss changes she was making to his manuscript. She just did them. Both Crawford and Lee liked it this way. It was very easy. No politics, no problems, no complaints — just great work.
But Martha was a professional. She didn’t like discussing the nuts and bolts of composition, especially with Jim, especially when he was drunk. It was just a job to her, not nearly as fun as working in her garden at home.
And Crawford, being aware of Martha’s temperament and skill, couldn’t shake the contradictions their relationship presented. She was the normal one. She was the happy one. She was the one who should be telling people how to improve their lives, Crawford knew. But Martha Ginsberg was uninterested in any of that. She was merely a book editor. Her problems were too few to give a damn about the rest of the fucked up world.
“You’re so much better than I am,” Crawford once told her after she called him to question the context of a phrase, finding him completely inebriated.
“Better off, perhaps,” she said, and changed the subject.
That response would stick with Crawford for a long time. Strangely, he only remembered it when he was alone and drunk. Or out in public wishing he was alone and drunk.
Even with intermittent TV appearances over the previous ten years, Crawford could still get nervous when it came to speaking in public, especially at social gatherings, and especially with academics. He kept telling himself that the little ceremony they
I need a doctor, he thought.
Or a drink.
Crawford frequently thought about his own advice — the same advice that had made him a fortune — but he only believed it while he was making it up, and probably not even then. Stop negative behavior and face life on its own terms and live a happy life forever and ever. Uh huh.
But the content hadn’t changed much over the years, only the way it was composed. Since the completion of his second book, Self-Worth , Crawford began to notice an odd relationship between his writing and his behavior. Increasingly, the writing of these feel-good books made him feel bad, creating a depression that would last for weeks, sometimes months. It was starting to impede the writing process until Crawford ultimately worked out a deal with himself. He had to “postpone” the disparaging thoughts and depression until after the work was completed, bribing himself with the promise of a nice long bender once it was done.
It took writing Self-Respect before Crawford became comfortable with this arrangement. Perhaps he just learned to live with it, but it also made the drinking binge that followed much longer and more extreme.
Then he began to believe that the awareness of this pattern was going to drive him mad. Each book was more successful than the last, creating high expectations for the next in the series. And after each book was published, the drinking relapse was markedly worse, making the hole deeper and deeper. So he rationalized the situation, telling himself that his experiences fed his “art.” He would dry out and talk to his wife about “calling the muse,” even though the drunkenness came after the fact. Eventually he would get sober and write a book about how to get happy and feel good. And after that he would be disgustingly drunk again.
“Any writer who says he writes 12 hours a day is full of shit,” he told his editor, Martha Ginsberg, on the phone one night, just after falling off the wagon the day before.
“Not necessarily,” she said. “It certainly isn’t impossible.”
“You know what I mean, Martha.”
Martha had edited all four Self Series books with such remarkable speed and independence that Crawford often wondered why she didn’t write her own self-help books. She almost never called Crawford, even to discuss changes she was making to his manuscript. She just did them. Both Crawford and Lee liked it this way. It was very easy. No politics, no problems, no complaints — just great work.
But Martha was a professional. She didn’t like discussing the nuts and bolts of composition, especially with Jim, especially when he was drunk. It was just a job to her, not nearly as fun as working in her garden at home.
And Crawford, being aware of Martha’s temperament and skill, couldn’t shake the contradictions their relationship presented. She was the normal one. She was the happy one. She was the one who should be telling people how to improve their lives, Crawford knew. But Martha Ginsberg was uninterested in any of that. She was merely a book editor. Her problems were too few to give a damn about the rest of the fucked up world.
“You’re so much better than I am,” Crawford once told her after she called him to question the context of a phrase, finding him completely inebriated.
“Better off, perhaps,” she said, and changed the subject.
That response would stick with Crawford for a long time. Strangely, he only remembered it when he was alone and drunk. Or out in public wishing he was alone and drunk.
Even with intermittent TV appearances over the previous ten years, Crawford could still get nervous when it came to speaking in public, especially at social gatherings, and especially with academics. He kept telling himself that the little ceremony they
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