It’s not difficult to list drunken authors. In fact it makes a good party game. There are countless examples of the inextricable link between creative (sometimes brilliant) writing and booze.
Jack Kerouac said, “As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind…” These critical, analytical days the quote sounds arrogant and ignorant. After all, the guy died of cirrhoris of the liver at 47.
I’m thinking this morning about why writers drink. I have a vested interest. I keep coming back to the solitariness of writing and the isolation of alcoholism and I feel like there must be a connection. Writing and drinking are a bit like dying; no matter how many people are around the bedside holding your hand, whispering encouragements, you have to do it alone.
