I tried to write. I couldn’t.
I opened a bottle of beer. I tried to research some of my favorite writers for some inspiration. Or maybe it was to kill time. Either way it kept me away from the suffering of writing.
While looking at their history I noticed a peculiar thing: all of these writers had been drunkards at some point of their lives. Surely that wasn’t enough to suggest a correlation with the profession of writing. But the numbers were too great – far too great to be considered merely a coincidence.
Why was that?
Why were writers such messed up people? Why were they deranged, drinking bastards?
It eluded me.
I disposed of me bottle. I opened another. I drank.
Then I realized I was walking on the same path as all the greats before me – I too was reliant on booze to write.
What was it that made alcohol so powerful? What was it that turned it into a necessity for writers, a drug they fed on to be able to produce?
Was it a precursor for writing? A prerequisite to adhere to the profession?
It eluded me.
Then I realized something else: all writers are miserable. I cannot remember the last time I came across a happy, jolly, cheerful, optimistic writer.
Misery loves company. And what better company than the entertaining presence of alcohol. Yes, it was all coming together now.
Writers carry the burdens of the world. They suck on the emotions, pain, hate and suffering of others and manifest them in their own words. By invoking these feelings, writers ultimately fall prey to their own powers – the powers to recreate feeling, emotions, senses. That’s when the booze kicks in: it plays the role of an escape, a safe passage that leads the writer out of his proper misery.
Some writers are talented fools. Others are geniuses who lack talent. But all are miserable folks who languish on this earth, laboring among the crowds to get their message across and ensure their voices are heard. They are united under one banner: triumphing over the power and unpredictability of life. With their vocation comes great sacrifice: the sacrifice of the self, the emotions, the feelings, the happiness. The reliance on alcohol. The solitude.
I do not believe in those who write romance or adventures stories. They are the people who try to grab life by the neck and change its course. I only believe in those who write horror and mystery tales. The horror genre – often filled with monsters and plagued with mayhem – is the true narration of life. Life is a thriller wrapped in a tale of mystery. It is plagued with terrible tragedies that constitute our everyday lives. To ignore them or drift away from them would be running away from life as we know it.
It is the duty as well as the sole purpose of the writer to navigate the people safely through the treacherous passages of life, so that they can coast through the tides and reach the shores unhinged. That is why it is the responsibility of the writer to depict the horrors of life as they truly are. He is the voice that whispers to us: “Live, for ultimately you are doomed to return to the land that once brought you. Live, for a life full of obstacles is the only kind of life worth living. Do not rest. Do not take comfort in a dull and empty life. For in the end, life is a mere reflection of those who live it, and it is only what we choose to make of it.”
I open my third bottle. The touch of the cold beer soothes me. I let it trickle on my tongue gently, relishing every drop, before it dances in my mouth, in between my teeth. I have gathered enough inspiration to finally write a page. How significant it will turn out only my misery can tell.