I Used to Drink to Write

Or did I write to drink?

I know I’m not the only one.

There are a lot of us out there. The creative chaos types who found some sort of freedom in a writing routine that involved booze. It started out innocent enough. I would get my son settled for the evening, sit down at the kitchen table with my computer, pour a glass of wine, turn on the music, and dim the lights. This is how I would begin telling my stories.

I romanced myself.

And, boy, was I convinced that my glass or three of wine would get my creative juices flowing. Who cared that I made a ton of spelling and grammatical mistakes? I was free to spew my truth!

Or was it that I was free to spew my lies? That’s how alcohol sneaks up on you. It turns you into a liar. Even if the lies are to yourself, the lies exist. At some point, you cross the line from I drink to write to I write to drink.

It can take a lot out of you, this writing business. For me, I would pour all of my emotions into a piece. I’d cry, laugh, rage with anger—and pour another glass of wine. I thought this was what true artists did. Wrong. The true artist is the one who can access their inner self without having to coax it out with alcohol.

If I’m going to be honest, I can say that there have certainly been times when I wished I was still drinking. Times when I miss that routine. And since embarking on a sober life, I have faced a creative block. I don’t believe it’s because I’m not drinking. I think it’s because my mind is still trying to tell those lies. My mind is fighting with my body.

But I know. I know that it’s a lie that I have writer’s block without having a drink. I also know that my writing is better without it. I can focus on my technical weaknesses and craft something that not only echoes my true thoughts and emotions but is much better written.

I believe in routine. I also believe in breaking routines to get to a new place. A deeper place. Routine can be a fun process—the turning on of the music, dimming the lights kind of thing. But your talent isn’t born from routine. Talent is innate. Skill is practiced.

It’s difficult to practice when you’re writing to drink. It’s difficult to practice when your mind is telling lies. Using your writing as an excuse to drink is a problem.

I am not saying that someone shouldn’t have a drink as part of their writing process. Everyone is different, and not everyone buries themselves in booze. What works for one person may not work for another—but I believe this: that elevated fuzzy cloud of drinking hides your reality and prohibits you from developing your skills. And we never stop developing our skills, do we?

I’m happy I turned my back on the lies my mind told. It may have taken me time to find my voice again, but I now understand that I’m well on my way toward creative growth.

I’m leaving the creative chaos behind.