I have all the vices of a writer, without the dedication. Maybe the constant numbness keeps the words at bay. Or maybe I’m just fucking lazy. Either way, I’m doing a disservice to my craft.
I indulge without divulging. I keep all my crazed thoughts to myself. But what fun is misery without some company?
We all have our demons, right? Each of us handles them differently, though.
Bukowski chose whiskey and women; Thompson chose anything he could damn well get his hands on. Shit, even Keats got down on some opium. Me? I choose marijuana and red wine.
Regardless, I need to stop finding (and accepting) excuses to not write. Or run. Or do yoga. Or clean my apartment.
I refuse to blame my lack of discipline on my moderate substance abuse when Stephen King spent nearly the entirety of the 80s on a coke-fueled writing spree!
I just need to learn to channel the madness into productivity.
