I know that there is a rich history of writers whose prose was fueled by drink.
Me? One margarita and my eyes can barely focus properly to type this sentence. . .and I had to reread and edit that twice because it did not make sense at first.
Could they do it because they wrote with pen on paper instead?
Or is it just me who finds that if I am to write something that I will like the next day, I better not have a drink with dinner.
I’m a total light weight. Easily effected. . . or rather affected. I’m not certain at the moment.
I am not like the brilliantly written and well performed character of Tyrion Lannister. His line was, “I drink and know things.” And the written narrative of the author transformed into meaningful words spoken by an actor.
I rarely drink and when I do, the words do not flow like a stream. They stick and spurt and trickle away to nothing.
I can feel the thickness of my brain like a viscous sludge blocking up the words. The alcohol becomes a dam stopping the flow of a river.
I am the kind of writer that should really consider setting aside time to write over morning coffee instead of expecting my next soliloquy to happen late in the evening.
Forget about needing a room of my own, I really need to dedicate a time of my own if I am to ever get past the internal angst of self analysis essay, short poetry, or social retoric. I want to drive myself to long form prose.
In the meantime, I just need to remember to knock out my daily writing before an evening cocktail.
253 Days to go