Sunday, October 25, 2009

Lies, lies, lies.

I went to the doctor on Thursday. Just the yearly check-up/weigh-in/speculum rape/syphilis swab.

As usual, the doctor and I nimbly circled around each other in the alcohol dance.

He asked me if I drank a lot.

I asked him what constituted “a lot.”

He asked me how much I drank in an average week.

I said I didn’t drink every week.

He asked me to guess.

I said maybe 10 drinks/week maximum, but that wasn’t every week.

He nodded like he believed me and then ordered a liver functioning test anyway.

Two nights later, I’m sitting alone on my couch, wondering how I just drank two-thirds of a bottle of red wine in under an hour.

See, I have this fiction piece I’m supposed to write for my writing class. I haven’t written fiction – real fiction, not a thinly veiled autobiography – in years. And even then, I wasn’t very good at it. Poetry, sure. Emo haikus, bring it. But real fiction? The thought makes my guts churn. I haven’t had an original idea in my entire life.

Add to the fact that we will be tearing through our final products next week in a group gang bang that our professor likes to call “workshopping.”

So, I thought a little wine might loosen me up and get the creative juices flowing. It worked for Ernest Hemingway. And Faulkner. And Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night! Drink wine and write! I’m pretty sure that’s the point, anyway.

Instead I just drank all the wine and wrote nothing. I’d failed my drunken writing forefathers. And then I was drunk, alone, and in my pjs at 9pm on a Saturday night. So when the peer pressure text messages from my friends started coming in, I had no choice but to back out of my convictions that I would spend the night working, put on pants, and get thee to the bar.

So now, here I am. Sunday morning, I’ve still written nothing, and I have a massive red wine headache.

Being a writer is hard.

Those liver function tests should be back any day now.


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