The wine urges me on, the bewitching wine, which sets even a wise man to singing and to laughing gently and rouses him up to dance and brings forth words which were better unspoken.
I used to smoke pot occasionally as a youth but, with the side effect of getting a good nights sleep and it's inability to be a gateway drug for me, it was almost the anti-drug. At one time I could drink a 26 of rye (that's 26 oz of Canadian Whiskey for those that may not know) but that was before I owned a computer. Have you ever tried using a typewriter drunk? On a side note, they're a bitch to clean up when you puke on them! That level of alcohol use was completely impractical when you lived at home and by the time I could afford, both time wise and dollar wise, to maintain a 26oz a day drinking habit my body couldn't handle it. When it comes to hangovers I am a big baby and it's incredibly hard to find sympathy for hangovers (apparently it can be found in the dictionary between shit and syphilis but I've never bothered looking).
I do have a coffee addiction but that is about as shocking as discovering dogs have a propensity for ballsack licking. As far as vices go coffee is a weak one (but if you take my coffee away I swear to the almighty that I will rip out your gullet and shove it up a lion's ass!)
So in an effort to legitimize my future writing career and with much research and consultation with my family, my physician and numerous other people in my life I have decided to pursue an addiction, although not as lethal as Meth or as satisfying as Tequila but:
---Homer
Write Drunk, Edit Sober
---Ernest Hemingway
I need a vice. It always seems that the most creative people have addictions of some sort, even Robert Munsch admitted to a drug addiction (No, not the zany random Robert Munsch). Two of my favourite literary figures, Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway are both notoriously known for their life's excesses, it played heavily into their writing and without it they likely would not have been as successful as they were.
I doubt I can ever be taken seriously as a writer. Who wants to read a story from someone who is happily married, never been to rehab or jail and doesn't even have a tattoo (I'm glad so few read this blog otherwise I would be so embarrassed). For Christ's sakes the skeletons in my closet came with the house and I have the documentation to prove it!
I think the best sounding addiction for a writer is a sex addiction, the problem with that is (at least for male writers) is that an unsuccessful man does not make a very good bedfellow and being able to bed enough woman to be able to fulfill the necessary criteria for an addiction for someone who would have difficulty finding willing partners would really cut into writing time.
I used to smoke pot occasionally as a youth but, with the side effect of getting a good nights sleep and it's inability to be a gateway drug for me, it was almost the anti-drug. At one time I could drink a 26 of rye (that's 26 oz of Canadian Whiskey for those that may not know) but that was before I owned a computer. Have you ever tried using a typewriter drunk? On a side note, they're a bitch to clean up when you puke on them! That level of alcohol use was completely impractical when you lived at home and by the time I could afford, both time wise and dollar wise, to maintain a 26oz a day drinking habit my body couldn't handle it. When it comes to hangovers I am a big baby and it's incredibly hard to find sympathy for hangovers (apparently it can be found in the dictionary between shit and syphilis but I've never bothered looking).
I found that I am way too much of a cheap bastard to be able to afford the "good drugs." If I was making enough money to buy coke or heroine that would likely mean that I was already successful, see the loop? I couldn't really imagine snorting cocaine off a designer coffee table with a $100 bill, first of all that coffee table could likely buy me a Macbook and the $100 bill would go a long ways to some really awesome writing software never mind the cost of the blow.
I used to have cigarettes. God bless cigarettes, just bad ass enough for some legitimacy but not overly interfering with your day to day life, or so I always thought. It turns out that when you have kids and a wife, who doesn't smoke, it's quite frowned upon. It's not that enjoyable to stand outside at -30° shivering with your wife standing at the door giving you a dirty look and trying to keep the kids from seeing you for fear that they may start the same dirty habit. It turned from a love of smoking (I really did love to smoke despite the known health risks) to smoking a butt in 3 minutes to keep me from freaking out. I decided it was time to quit. It's been four months. UPDATE: Apparently I am not a quitter… good for somethings, this, not so much
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| Image by Bortwein |
What does that leave me with coffee? Coffee? Who ever heard of a great artist dying from a coffee overdose.
D. Ryan Leask, celebrated author known for his excessive lifestyle and gritty real novels died today of an apparent coffee overdose, he was 36. He had struggled with addiction his entire life and had recently been released from the Juan Valdez Clinic in Bogota, where he had been seeking treatment for caffeine over the last three months. He is survived by his Three Ex-Wives, Elizabeth, Brittany and Kiki as well as numerous children.
I do have a coffee addiction but that is about as shocking as discovering dogs have a propensity for ballsack licking. As far as vices go coffee is a weak one (but if you take my coffee away I swear to the almighty that I will rip out your gullet and shove it up a lion's ass!)
So in an effort to legitimize my future writing career and with much research and consultation with my family, my physician and numerous other people in my life I have decided to pursue an addiction, although not as lethal as Meth or as satisfying as Tequila but:
My god I love Shoestring licorice!
Thanks for Reading
D. Ryan Leask