Shurely shome mishtake?
Intoxicated syntax
I’m giving up alcohol this Lent. Which means I might get a little more writing and editing done.
How on earth some journalists and writers have got away with producing material while being boozed and drugged up to the eyeballs I’ll never know. I can barely stay awake after three beers. Take Hunter S Thompson’s supposed daily routine:
Ernest Hemingway was another big drinker. Evelyn Waugh liked a tipple or ten as well, apparently.
I suppose they could get away with chugging a bottle of brandy for breakfast. After all, they only had to write (x) amount of words, get their publisher’s minions to edit, proofread and correct it for inaccuracies and then market it to an army of loyal readers. They had already done the hard yards, earned their right, yada yada, etc.
For us mere self-published mortals, it doesn’t quite work like that. First of all, we can’t simply write for 72 hours straight while getting smashed and injecting heroin into our butt cheeks. Well, I could try, but my wife would kill me. Secondly, we don’t have a team of proofreaders and editors waiting to polish our manuscripts for us. One option is to get someone else to do it for you, but it’ll cost ya Mac. Big time.
Mind you, it’s easy to see why some of them drank so heavily. Hunter S Thompson, was an intrepid reporter (imaginary ed — was he “intrepid” because he was always off his head?). He wanted to expose the corruption that festered in Washington D.C. No wonder he sought solace in the bottle and other recreational drugs. He saw what power did to people and what people did with power and it truly disgusted him.
Others no doubt drank out of boredom. Or they wanted to escape the bubbles their lives had become. Or they felt they were frauds. Or maybe drinking comes with the territory. My days as a journalist in the City of London were certainly quite boozy, as far as I can remember (imaginary ed — is that supposed to be a joke? Please cut it out).
On a serious note, abusing your body is bad for your health and for your soul. Imagine if Maradona or Gazza had actually taken care of themselves. They would have achieved far more than they actually did in their careers. They would have made Messi and Ronaldo look like amateurs. Ditto for Jimi Hendrix; J.D. Salinger. Then again, there is the theory that creative genius goes hand-in-hand with a destructive and addictive personality. Michelangelo is said to have liked a drink. Beethoven, too. But if they really were alcoholics then when could they have had a steady enough hand to sculpt and write music? And was Mozart inebriated when he came up with his absolutely brilliant compositions as a child and teenager? I doubt it.
I’m in the middle of another read through of my next novella Through Open Doors and I’m still tweaking stuff and finding little mistakes. It’s amazing what you find, particularly if you leave a manuscript alone for a week or two and then come back to it. But proofreading is not best done after four gin and tonics, half a bottle of Malbec and a visit to the local crack den.
Or maybe it is. What do I know (imaginary ed — have you been drinking? This post is all over the place).
Anyway, I have had another breakthrough, as I like to call them, with my latest novel, The Man Who Wore Hats. I’ve given the protagonist, Albert Poniatowski — a private detective descended from Polish royalty — a drink of choice: A double shot of Chopin vodka chased down by an iced tea. For some reason (in my mind at least) small details such as these give life to a character.
There are 11 days left until Lent starts. I best have a drink.
Progress report
I am getting very close to having the final manuscript ready for Through Open Doors.
The Man Who Wore Hats is at 43,022 words.
Take it easy and thanks for reading.