Delusions of Grammar
[*cshk* glug, glug. *ah!*]
Yep. More white-trash than white-tie. But please, continue to picture me in the study. I love that image.
Setting aside for a moment the advisability of drinking the vast quantities of beer that power the fevered imaginings of my poor deranged brain, there is at least one good reason for keeping beer close to hand-- namely, the aforementioned feverish, deranged, and mercurial nature of said lump of grey matter.
(I go all kinds of polysyllabic after a few beers.) (strange but true; I am more facile with the muttersprach-- and apparently, any number of foreign tongues-- after knocking back a few cold ones, than I might dare to attempt while sober.)
If I had to actually go get a beer-- walk to the fridge, etc. etc.-- who knows what esoteric ephemera would be lost in the living room or dining room along the way. It's bad enough I have to respond to the exigencies of my bladder.
Now, anyone who might be impressed by my own meagre efforts with the language of Shakespeare and Milton should pick up Gormenghast by Mervyn Peake. That sucka can throw down. His prose is so thick I can only take it in 5 page increments. His prose is so thick I could use it to hammer in railroad spikes. He lays on a narrative line that must be deciphered; oh, the gist will be plain enough on a first read but this is no pulp-bestseller-beach-read-novelty; Peake is work. An argument could be made that the Gormenghast trilogy is an 1100 page free-form poem, as much as it is also a novel. And like some other classics (Chaucer, Spenser) it remains an uncompleted work-- at least from the outline of it's author's original intent.
But before I got sidetracked into elegiac praise for those-who-have-gone-before, I was attempting to shed light on my own unique process.
Step 1: fire up the laptop.
2.open beer
3.attempt to write a masterful work of epic fantasy
... and repeat steps 2 and 3 in a recursive loop until the beer overcomes the delusions of grandeur, or the delusions of grammar, or the delusions of adequacy.
To be fair, I should say that I also write while sober. (as is evidenced here; a number of posts for tabulas have been done during my lunch breaks at work. More sober I cannot get.) I also write while hungover, and tired, and sick, and when temporary economic circumstances dictate that I can't afford the vasty quantities of beer that are my usual wont.
But call me biased (I am; I also have an agenda, to proselytise the sober masses of the subtle revelation to be found at the bottom of pint glasses) I think my best work is done when I stretch myself a bit.
After running 5 miles.
After a nine hour shift at work.
After just 2 hours of sleep
After helping a friend move
And after drinking.
(I have more experience of drink than of the other exertions) Something about physical exertion, or mindless tedium, or apparently, deliberate chemical poisoning, seems to free up my creative side. I think that my creative brain is still working even when it is not actively engaged, and in fact may do better after a period of dormancy. It has a chance to build up a charge, an internal battery that just awaits a quiet moment and the right kind of contact to release a creative spark.
And yet, while the flash and bang are satisfying, there are dangers to be faced when attempting to leash the wild lighting of creativity. Nothing seems to fall into place. Vast energies are released, but they are hard to channel into appropriate efforts. It takes more than spark to write fiction.
(some lament that the muse never visits. My muse is present, but she tends to trash the place.) (better than writers' block, though, by a fair piece)
And if you'll forgive me, I've got a large leather airchair and a couple of cans of muse left in the cooler, waiting for me in the study. I just might be able to get some real work done before I have to turn in for the night.
Posted by enchiridion at 11:05 PM in Drunken Ramblings, Writing Process as a favorite post | 1 opinions
enchiridion
*cshk*
Ah, that's better.
Upon slightly-less-drunk reflection, let me just say that the phrase "cans of muse" is at best a colourful metaphor, at worst a cruel joke current writers play on those that will follow them.
Despite the romantic image of the typewriter-and-whiskey-bottle combo, then lone writer chugging along at 36 words and half a cigarette a minute, listening to the creak of the labouring ceiling fan as the setting sun casts long shadows into a dingy room at the absurdly named Excelsior Hotel, waiting for nightfall and the smell of roasting pork to call to him from the small cantina across the street. Already he could hear the faint strains of mariachi, the murmured conversations in Spanish, the louder words of gringos who think if they just talk loudly and slowly enough they can make themselves understood.
Soon the sun would set. Soon he will finish the assignment for his editor back in LA, and he can go down to sample the cervesas and the senoritas...
Wait. what was my point?
Despite the romantic image of hard-working, hard-drinking writers (mine apparently is noir-inspired) “fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.”
there is no inspiration to be found in a bottle. Consolation, maybe, but no magic formula for the next great american novel.