Throughout the wet slide of winter into spring, I’ve been thinking about creation. When you put art out, you send a part of yourself into the world. Once there, it no longer belongs solely to you. This is often a beautiful experience. Reaching other humans is the glorious goal of art. But, there is always the chance that your art will be seized and bent into a shape you never intended.

I spent much of March researching Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath — two artists whose deaths have at times overshadowed their artistic achievements. I wrote an essay for the 30th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s passing that reflects on the unfounded conspiracies around his death and what they say about our society’s discomfort with suicide. And after months of on-and-off listening, I finished the audiobook of Red Comet — Heather Clark’s excellent Sylvia Plath biography.

I was not left dispirited by so much reflection on two brilliant artists who committed suicide when they were younger than I am now. Rather, I marvel at the strange twists of this life. The popular conceptions of suicide and genius run side by side — they are inevitable, touching only a certain type of people. But that’s nonsense. Neither Cobain’s nor Plath’s deaths were inevitable. The circumstances of Plath’s suicide, especially, were caused by cascading twists of fate. One knot undone and she might’ve slipped loose.

The popular conception of genius is that it’s a divine lightning bolt. Most of Plath’s greatest poems — including Daddy, Ariel, and Fever 103° — were written in a burst that lasted under a month. In the pitch black pre-dawn hours, she composed revelatory poems that seized the darkest parts of human existence and sliced them open to see what bled out. However, this blazing streak of her red comet was only possible after more than a decade of disciplined devotion.

The act of creating is a marathon. It requires perseverance and an unwavering focus on refining one’s vision. Plath and Cobain were voracious in their appetite for art. Both practiced in obscurity for years before hitting the creative streaks that would vault them up to the level of “genius.” The misappropriations and mythologies of their deaths lay it bare that creation is, at its core, an act of trust.

For this reason I do not take my role as editor of Whiskey Tit Journal lightly. This issue is the conduit for 12 artists whose work is filled with vitality and vision. I’m honored that they have entrusted me to steward these pieces into the world. In the 10th issue of Whiskey Tit, you’ll find cider recipes, playground attacks, AIDS remembrance, bad fatherly advice, frustrated dystopian mothers, beheading fantasies, and much more. Plus, we’re lucky enough to have Julie Wilson’s brilliant “Homeless” series of paintings to accompany the written works.

I’d also like to extend a thank you you to all our lovely readers. You’ve always helped us push our mission forward.