The Fredösphere

Inherit genius genes.
Arrange for early horrendous parenting disasters.  Either abuse or neglect will do:

Dylan Thomas was right to remark that the only thing worse than an unhappy childhood was “having a too-happy childhood.” (Sad to think of today’s moms and dads out there pumping extra oxygen and prenatal Mozart into the womb, or teaching calculus to their preschoolers. What the historical record shows is that parents who wish their tots to achieve greatness should beat them regularly, destroy their self-esteem, and cruelly deprive them of ordinary comforts, such as ice cream, toys, or their mothers’ affections. It would be especially helpful for one of the parents, probably dad, to die before the onset of adolescence; suicide is fine for the purpose.)

Indulge in childhood episodes of some dramatic illness.  Epilepsy and asthma are excellent choices, but if you can find a disease that's so rare that it goes undiagnosed for years, all the better.
In your early teens, experience for the first time a overwhelming sensation of your own unique destiny.
Age 15:  write some music.
Age 20:  now is the time to begin your lifelong addictions.  No need to choose carefully.
Age 21:  bitter that your genius goes unrecognized, throw out your juvenilia.  (No great loss anyway.)
Early adulthood:  use erratic behavior to end all your relationships badly.
In a rare moment of sanity, commit yourself to an institution for 13 years.
Get yourself kicked out of the institution.  Resume "career" as a chronically unemployable misfit.
In one frantic, caffeine-fueled spasm of creative energy that lasts 9 sleepless days, compose three symphonic works, a song cycle, a dozen chamber works that somehow really are works of flawless genius, a 1200 page autobiography/manifesto, and a grand opera to make Wagner wet his bed.  Exhausted but elated, rush out of the house to tell your friends what you have accomplished.  Remembering you have no friends, return home to discover the coffee maker you forgot to turn off has burned up your apartment and all your manuscripts.  Collapse into a coma, but not before realizing your impending breakdown will result in a loss of memory, rendering your masterpieces irretrievable.
The wilderness years:  focus your creative energies on a few pointless, self-destructive gestures.
A chance meeting of an old college buddy who is now a tenured professor at a top music school:  hear him express amazement that you are still alive.
At some point along the way, write one completed work.
Die in the midst of squalor -- perhaps by eating tainted cat food.  Leave your one surviving manuscript sitting out where the police can identify it as a work of unsurpassed brilliance.
Enjoy posthumous adulation.