True. Man.

I saw Capote earlier tonight and was somewhat upset. I have never read In Cold Blood (but I need to and probably should because I am taking a creative nonfiction class next semester) but, of course, I knew the general gist. Still, Truman Capote, you're a bastard, even if you are gay.
The film was compelling and torturous. The pace was fantastic: I was simply dying for the case to finally end, just as Truman was. The atmosphere was one of utter agony.
Phillip Seymore-Hoffman is amazing. He shades Capote perfectly: you know what the man is thinking--but do you? Also, I had my idiot moment with Catherine Keener's Nelle Harper Lee. It took me a moment to connect the Harper Lee to To Kill a Mocking Bird but what can one do.
So yes: writing is destructive. Your art can both create and destroy you. And maybe it isn't worth selling your conscience for a killer story. Or is it.