Boohoo, Please Hold Me

 

When you write, I mean really write, when you believe you can write, there is no stopping. 

I never know what I’m going to say or how I’m going to say it when I begin a story. Often I'm half in the bag.

There’s a long list of writers who were lushes, here are a few you likely know—  Hunter S. Thompson, O. Henry, John Cheevers, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Dorthy Parker, Edgar Allen Poe, Truman Capote William Faulkner, Raymond Carver. Just to name a few of the hundreds.

The boozing folklore the list of renowned has propagated is more amusing than their work— particularly in the case of Poe and Faulkner.

Sylvia Plath wrote in her book The Bell Jar—

I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.

Sylvia needed booze to write because it energized her.

Her psychosis is well documented by psychologists and literati alike. James Kaufman coined the term The Sylvia Plath Effect referring to the phenomenon that creative writers are more susceptible to mental illness. I myself dabble in mental illness, it's a way of life for me.

Being unhinged is a prerequisite for writers.

Charles Bukowski is known as the patron saint of lowlifes. Reading his early biography you understand why he needed alcohol. 

Buk ran away from home at 16 to escape his abusive father, riding buses cross country. He was a drifter who spent time working menial jobs and hanging out at bars, gracefully earning his alcoholic chops in stride. 

Soon, in the haze of his existence, he began writing, finding his calling— sipping wine and beer through the night as he worked.

Much has been written about gonzo king Hunter S. Thompson, including my story on this blog, Hunter S. Thompson, Weird to Most. Anyway, dribble, dribble, blah, here's a segment of his morning routine published in the Associated Press circa 1974. 

3pm— rise

3:05— Chivas Regal with the mourning papers 

3:45—  cocaine

3:50—  another glass of Chivas

4:05— coffee and a Dunhill

4:15— cocaine

4:16— orange juice, Dunhill

4:30— cocaine

4:54— cocaine

5:05— cocaine

5:11—  coffee, Dunhills

5:30— more ice in the Chivas

5:45— cocaine

6:PM— grass to take the edge off

7:05— off to the Woody Creek Tavern in downtown Aspen.

Enough on the over-hyped and well-oiled. Let's stray to something even more demoralizing. What kind of writer are you? Or, the nothing writers of the world versus the renowned and worshiped. 

At times, while reading certain writers, namely, Bukowski and Hunter Thompson I say out loud—

 you can write as good as these clowns.  

Hunter capitalizes words to underscore their importance when italicizing would do— he does it paragraph after paragraph because he’s Hunter Fucking Thompson King Gonzo. Here’s a bit from his book Hey Rube,

There was an exact moment, in fact, when I knew Al Gore would Never be President of the United States no matter what the TV networks said. 

Here's another, why the fuck cap instance?

But what the hell? That’s why we have Insurance, And the Inevitability of these Nightmares is what makes them so reassuring.

His book, Hells Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang— hinges on the Angel's 1964 Labor Day rally to Monterey, California. After leaving a downtown bar the outlaw gang rides their choppers to an area known as The Dunes to party and camp. In the wee hours, two teenage girls, who shouldn't have been there, were raped by the gang.

Hunter refers to the rape and resulting charges by the Monterey Sheriff's Department every ten pages or so, adding bits of information but pretty much saying the same thing. 

Over amped and seemingly desperate to get his point across he uses caps where they don't belong and superfluously pounds away at his story's themes. Which is childish, like a baby crying to be held, contrary to Hunter's barbarian of modern literature persona. 

How many superstar authors are unheard of? Will their work be unearthed after they've kicked in? Or, will their printed books decay on a shelf somewhere while their electric books, blogs, and such fade away on the world wide web? 

With electronic self-publishing, it's easy to be an author. There are thousands upon thousands of would-be authors on social media. 

The odds of a writer making it are minimal.

Nielsen BookScan reported in 2004 that of 1.2 million books tracked, only 25,000— barely more than 2 percent— sold more than 5,000 copies.

I have 200,000 hits on my blog, Busted on Empty. Two of my stories, Hate, Zits & Spirituality, and, Missiles, Fruit Flies, & Psychosis, have over 8000 hits each. 

Yet, I haven’t made it, no publishers have contacted me, and I’m sure when I croak, Google will redline my blog after a year, pulling the curtain on the one-man show— Busted on Empty.

And, I don’t kick around the thought of being discovered when the curtain falls, like— Kafka, Sylvia Plath, Poe, or Henry David Thoreau. 

Give me a second to wipe the tears streaming down my face.

For different reasons, like Hunter, I’m a baby crying out to be held. Please hold me.