Depression Didn’t Make Me a Poet. Zoloft Did.

The myth of the tortured artist is killing creatives.

On a wintry day that’s trying and failing to be cold, I’m awaiting a delicious meal. And the beginning of a Christmas poetry workshop. There are many astonishing things about this. The first is that I’m in Europe. I grew up in abject poverty in grand zero of the opioid epidemic: rural West…