Jack Kerouac.
William Faulkner. James
Joyce. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Ernest Hemingway.
Brilliant writers. Raging alcoholics.
I’ve always wondered if I should cultivate an
addiction—sex, gambling, cocaine, or the classic alcoholism to which so many
great artists have surrendered. The
Libertine is a film entirely devoted to the drinking habits of 17th century poet John Wilmot, and how he
couldn’t write a single word while sober.
Perhaps I should buy a bottle of Jack Daniels and get to it, then.
Unlike these men of renown, however, I can’t hold my
liquor. When I drink, I just get
sleepy and tend to find a dark corner to curl up in. What then? Even
if someone handed me their life savings, I wouldn’t know how to gamble (card games are pretty much math puzzles—math and I don't get along). I could start a
string of passionate affairs, but then there’s STDs and babies and I’d have to
shave my legs. There’s always drugs, but which one to choose? It
would take far too much research to test them all, and there’s always the
off-chance I might die, which would sort of negate the purpose of finding an
addiction in the first place.
What is left? I
could become obsessed with cooking, I suppose, but I don’t think that’s
destructive enough to count. It’s
got to be really dark to make me a
better writer. After all, I must
be unmade, broken down—I must despair, if I am to write anything
worthwhile. Because everyone knows
that despair is the only emotion that makes writers honest.
In all honesty, though, do we need to be tortured? I doubt these men sought
self-destruction consciously, or for the purpose of improving their craft. I glorify their addictions despite
myself, and wish I could be as lonely and tormented as they so that I, too, could be
a truly great writer, an artist above all others; my insanity praised as
poignant truth!
But that’s stupid.
In the end, it is not the substance coursing through our veins that
pours words onto pages—with or without a stimulant, we write what we know and we
write who we are. Addiction is a
red herring—truth comes from pain and pain comes from love and love comes from us.
Alcohol is the smoke and mirrors distracting our eye from the source of
the magic—the magician. Alcohol does not wax poetic about the mysteries of life—writers do.
So writers, try not to pick up a bad coke habit or Chlamydia
while you’re writing the next great American novel. Maybe try some fresh air and sunshine. Hug your nephew, climb a mountain, ride
a bicycle naked through the streets of your hometown. There are far better stimultants to prod your creativity to the
surface. And don’t forget: just
because you’re a serious writer doesn’t mean you can’t love life.
You may well look back and regret those nights cooped up in
your room wracking your brains for an original idea, or the holidays you missed
with family, or the things you thought you had to do to succeed. You may regret the lies you told and
the promises you broke to yourself .
But you will never look back and regret having loved. Anyone who tries to argue that
doesn’t understand what it means.
Addiction and despair may make you infamous. But love makes you (and by extension, your writing) worthwhile.
www.erwomelsduff.com
As a steadfast follower of the straight-edge lifestyle and a writer, I have found myself different enough from those around me to have a unique viewpoint (and therefore stories to write). I've had my addictions -- my sobriety, food, and, for a year in college, Guitar Hero -- and I've had a pretty decent upbringing. No tragedy to speak of, no overly-abusive parents (let's face it, every parent emotionally torments their children at least a little bit), and no chemical dependency on anything. I can attest to the positivity being enough to bring the writing content to the surface, but at the same time, I highly doubt that I'd be able to write a dramatic piece. I skew towards comedy for, in all honesty, my only real addiction is other people's laughter.
ReplyDeleteYeah, a lot of that sounded corny, but what I'm trying to say is nice post.