Practice Makes Imperfect

"Is the drinking connected to the witting lifestyle for you.?" Dr. L asks. "Part of the attraction might be that it's a mans world, the alcohol, the manuscripts, and it's all tied together. So if you gave up the drinking you might have to give up the idea of the writing."

Wow, that's deep. I never thought about it like that before. To give up drinking I might feel that I would have to give up my writing. Have I connected the two in my head to such an extent that they are one? That would mean that I never can stop drinking. I'll never be able to be free of the bottle, because I will never stop writing.

"You need the alcohol to get you closer to your emotions. So why is that?" Dr. L pauses. "What is it that keeps people from getting closer to those emotions without the alcohol boost? Could it be the intensity of the feeling? Its hard to tolerate that kind of stuff raw, really raw without that little buffer in there."

This is true. When I get to issues in a story that means that I must connect with a character, or something he/she is facing, I drink to bridge the emotional gap, since I'm not genuinely feeling the emotions. Sometimes these feelings or manufactured emotions stir other emotions inside myself. It's called 'spillover'. I connect with long buried feelings that need not be rubbed raw, and yet they do. They hurt sometimes, and sometimes I need to anesthetize them to recover. But that's the creative process, the spark that lights up some of my writing. Some I say, because I don't need alcohol for ALL of my writing. That's why I write so much, to actually WILL my writing into fruition. To MAKE myself into a writer by sheer skill and ability through practice and patience. Not by drinking some ersatz talent into being. That's not my plan.

There's nothing to think about. Nothing to ponder over. I'm not a writer. No, not one yet, but I'm on my way. I'm struggling to become one, and like an ant struggling through mud, I will not stop trying until I prevail. That's why I'm not looking for that 'job' to get out of the mess I'm in. That's why I don't have the 'house' over my head, a bed to call my own. That's why I'm wearing hand me down clothes, and eating state food. That's why I've chosen a secondary and inferior life, so that I can focus on my writing. So that I can keep my eye on the motherfucking prize.

I stand resolute. I'm alone in the fucking field and I know that. My father thinks that I've lost my mind. My mother believes that there's hope for me yet. My friends are trying to understand me. Others are on my side and encourage me to keep on going. And I have no intention of stopping, even if it means going back to the streets. To fall from grace as a shelt and sleep in subways and bus stations and train stations again. I'm never been more ready for this battle than I am now.

And that's what it really is. It's a battle to the mother lovin' finish. That's right. Win, lose and sorry, no goddamn draw.

I realize that this is it. I'm not stupid. I might just die out here. Not from some premature death. No. But from old age. Struggling still with trying to write something that lasts. And then end up finished from some heart disease, or liver destruction. By an aneurysm or stroke or brain hemorrhage. Then suddenly someone will find some obscure work of mine and find it to be the work of genius, and then all of my work will come under review, and money will flow like water to an estate, and all the letters that I've written will go into a compendium of books. And I will become famous. And some estate will store my riches and put underprivileged kids through college. I will leave no children to bequeath anything to, no wife to inherit, no family to receive. It will be a pitiable finish.

And I'm prepared for it if it comes to that. Yes, that's right. This is not bravado, this is the truth of my resolve. I'm not in this for my health people. I'm not in this for some compassion, or attention. If I wanted attention I'd walk down Fifth Avenue naked, with my little Cheese Doodle swinging in the wind. If I wanted compassion I'd attempt suicide.

I want to be a writer. More than anything. I want to spend my time writing and working on a book or news article or an ad. I want to write copy. I want to write a column. I want to write my blog. I want to write my letters and emails. I'm in love with the written word. Understand??

And that's where I am. I'm not sitting on the edge of my bed, turning down Mike Murder's imploring that we go out and buy a bottle of hooch to drink up until dumb. I'm not sitting on the edge of my bed listening to BK talk at the top of his lungs on his cell phone as if the person on the other side is across the block. I'm not sitting on the edge of my bed being looked over by Vanessa the Tech who wants to know what I'm doing on my laptop. I'm not sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark because they shut off the lights at Ten, and will soon be telling me to close up shop at Midnight.

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed writing.

Doing the only thing that I want to do.

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