The two go hand-in-hand: writing and drinking. Though not an absolute necessity, there are very few truly great writers who didn’t drink.
I feel guilty about it, sometimes, because once in a while I overdo it and end up face-down on the bathroom floor. Then my roommate walks in with her arms crossed and chastises me.
“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” she says.
“Woman! How do you think I feel?!!” I didn’t do this on purpose, and it hardly ever happens, but sometimes it just happens. Mistakes happen.
It’s called life.
At times I envy people who don’t drink, but then there are other times where I hardly consider them human. They’ve never learned to let go and cut loose. They’ve never allowed themselves to be someone else.
Sure, on the whole, they’re more successful, the non-drinkers. And I respect that, on a certain level.
It’s just that what passes for “success” is, more often than not, merely an example of convenient conformity.
“Oh, wow, look. The square peg found a square hole. How impressive.”
So I know it’s an ongoing battle. Win some, lose some. But I also know that drinking truly does help my writing, when done with forethought and a sense of strategy.
I just wish I could market myself with as much certainty.