"The drink takes you:" Contemplations on Alcoholism and the Artistic Temperament

When we offer up our admiration, our praise, even our jealousy to the great American writers of the 20th century, we are largely doing so to a group of alcoholics, drug addicts, and general delinquents.  As Hunter Thompson said, "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." There is a key point made in that declaration: just because I write about something, just because I convey my life the way it is, does not mean I'm telling you to do the same.  But this point eludes many who admire men like Thompson.  I'd love to argue that we should admire his writing alone, not him for all the shit he got himself into, but I know it is precisely that shit that made Thompson a great man, a different man and therefore a noteworthy man.  What would he have been without all the alcohol and drugs? Those things were integral parts of his life, his philosophy. 

And there we have it.  We so easily move from admiration of a talent to mythologizing a defect on the grounds that the two must be related.  My theory as to why we artist admirers and maybe even artists ourselves take part in this never-ending deluded admiration is that many of us are sufferers too; we all want to believe that our diseases, our defaults, our dysfunctions have some purpose. 

There's really nothing wrong with this desire as long as one does not inadvertently become dependent on their diseases, defaults, and dysfunctions and as long as one does not begin to see them as defining features of who they are.  Scott Fitzgerald wrote, "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you."  I see this as applying to more than just a specific instance of drunkenness; rather, it's the whole process of becoming an addict, of wrapping up our identity so tightly in something, something harmful, that we disappear. 

What does all of this have to do specifically with writing? Well, I recently read Stephen King's On Writing, in which he intimately discusses his severe bout with alcoholism.  What I realized is that it's only natural for writers, people who spend their days inside their heads, to struggle with addiction.  Let's face it, it's downright painful to be quietly with our thoughts that much of the time.  As I've mentioned in previous blogs, it is this very fact that has often prevented me from throwing myself into writing, particularly poetry, as much as I know I am capable.  Hell, it is that fact that holds me back now.  It's not an issue of time or dedication.  It's an issue of being willing or not willing to sacrifice a bit of my mental health for a craft.  I'm sure some will contend with me on the inevitability of that occurrence, and on certain days, I might too, but as for today, I know myself.    

So maybe it is a connection, not just admiration, that many readers and fellow artists feel toward men like Thompson.  But a point that King makes that bears repeating is that the suffering, the addiction, all those dysfunctional things, are not required to be an artist, to be a writer.  He contends that the life of the mind is one that inevitably gets along with the tendencies of alcoholism and drug dependence but that natural attraction is not one we must succumb to, and that to fight it is not to fight against creativity. 

You Are What You Drink

As John Cusack's character says in the wonderful High Fidelity, "what really matters is what you like, not what you are like." To some extent, the same can be said of drinks and authors; as much as they are what they drink, they often write like they drink. Let's take a look at some examples:

"After the first glass of absinthe you see things as you wish they were. After the second you see them as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world. I mean disassociated. Take a top hat. You think you see it as it really is. But you don’t because you associate it with other things and ideas. If you had never heard of one before, and suddenly saw it alone, you’d be frightened, or you’d laugh. That is the effect absinthe has, and that is why it drives men mad" - Oscar Wilde.

Absinthe. If you've had it, you know what it's capable of; if you haven’t, you've probably heard something similar to what Oscar detailed above. Here's the lowdown: the average bottle of absinthe, and there are countless varieties, is 70% alcohol. That's pretty high and with the fun belief that absinthe either does, or once did, contain hallucinogenic components, the wide-spread appeal of absinthe is not difficult to understand. The ethos of absinthe is strongly based in its association with creativity, freedom, and insanity. Many writers and artists at the turn of the 20th century had a strong affinity to the drink as a result of those associations. But everything about absinthe is perfectly suited to Wilde like it is to no other. Just as his writing is an examination of the eccentricities of life and beauty, absinthe entices the consumer to follow the mysterious green fairy on whatever dalliances she fancies. Who knows what you could experience if you just go a little crazy.

Hemingway liked absinthe too; he supposedly drank it everyday while living abroad, and that was even after it was outlawed. The law never stopped old Ernest anyway. But, according to an article on npr.org, Hemingway's perhaps favorite drink was the mojito. This surprises me because I like to think that Hemingway was too much of a man to drink anything with light rum in it. But, alas, this further reveals the sensitive person that seemingly hit beneath the bravado. I like to picture my Hemingway drinking a whiskey neat. But that's because I believe the drink makes the man, and Hemingway was simply not a man made by mojitos. But, what really mattered to Hemingway seemed to be one thing: that he became intoxicated by whatever means necessary, and in that regard he and Jack Kerouac would have gotten along splendidly. "A man does not exist until he is drunk" - Hemingway. Ah. Gotta love that man.

In the literary bar of my mind, Fitzgerald just walked in, took a seat next to his buddy Hemingway, and ordered a gin neat. Supposedly, Fitzgerald preferred this drink because it could be easily concealed with little odor to reveal its presence. It must also be noted that Fitzgerald was a beer drinker if for no other reason than he was Irish. An Irishman is not an Irishman if he doesn't drink beer. Now it may seem a little unfair to in anyway judge Fitzgerald on his drinking habits being that it is widely noted that he was a true lightweight. However, just as Fitzgerald's prose is like a lighter, more easily consumable variation of Hemingway's more harsh and sometimes off-putting constructions, so too can their drinking styles be compared. And Fitzgerald's lightweight nature never stopped him from trying; as determined as he was to be the greatest writer who ever lived, he was equally set on consuming beyond his means. He once said, "In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning." I imagine there's more literal truth to this statement than we may initially recognize. After all, most of Fitzgerald's life was a perpetual 3am party on the verge of becoming a hangover.

Last, but not least, the absolutely insane life of the party just walked in. If no one has gone running through the night breeze with a shotgun in their hands just for the sheer exuberance of it, that will be happening soon. Of course, I'm referring to Hunter Thompson. That stir-his-drink-with-his-bare-finger madman. And that finger was normally being inserted into (please ignore how dirty the first part of this sentence sounds) a glass of rum on the rocks. Thompson was a true outlaw, living outside the bounds of any kind of conventional society, so what else would he choose but the drink of a pirate? For Thompson, the connection between living life and the consumption of large amounts of intoxicants was undeniable: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."

These drinks, and no doubt the other substances that they were often consumed with, may have very well played major roles in the demise of these men. Oscar Wilde and Scott Fitzgerald both died because their bodies ultimately fell apart in their forties. While, Hemingway and Thompson may have lived to be older men, they eventually chose to take their own lives, a choice that shows a deterioration of mental health if not physical, a process that is no doubt aided along by the over-consumption of alcohol. But, as Thompson seems to allude to in his quotation above, what would these men have been without these substances? This question is not meant to imply that these men were only great because they drank and/or abused drugs; nor is it meant to diminish the signifance of health, happiness, and well-being to any human's life. All of that said, the answer to the above question is undeniably, "they would not have been the same." We would not have A Picture of Dorian Grey, "A Clean Well-Lighted Place," The Great Gatsby, or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas if these men didn't drink. This is not to say that drinking is what fueled their brilliance, but it is to say that it's inseparable. Each of these men were in their own way tortured by what they saw in the world, and that same torture is what led them to drink and to write.

Until next time,

Leena

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6624971

Building your Writing Toolkit: Part Three – Substance and Substances.

I loathe the phrase “the so what factor.” I kept butting heads with professors in my lower division English classes who would bring up this idiotic idiom every time I turned in an essay. Two things about this attitude piss me off: first, a reader should care about my opinion because it is well researched, well argued, and eloquently presented; second, there’s always someone out there who will say “So What?” and frankly I don’t give a shit about that segment of my potential audience who isn’t going to hear what I’m trying to say – if they don’t get what I’m writing because it isn’t relevant to their view of the world, they don’t matter to me.

I don’t think that authors (or essayists or poets) should sit down, look over their delicately crafted work, put themselves into the mindset of a fourteen-year-old and ask “so what?” about their writing. There’s always someone who won’t care, there’s always someone you won’t reach, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

But before you can communicate with any audience you need to know what you’re writing and why you’re writing it. One of my professors had another question he frequently tossed at his classes, and this question is one that I have no problem with: What Does it Do?

Many writers have trouble reading over their work for the sake of their work – it’s hard to read a short story you’ve written as an outsider and simply enjoy it as fiction, which means that it’s hard for writers to see what their work does in someone else’s eyes. A lot of what I write entertains, and that is all it does. It doesn’t answer big questions, it’s not intended to teach lessons, and it’s not typically solemn and grave: I’m snarky as hell and if I try to write something too serious I generally sound either pedantic or emo. It took me a long time to understand this, and an even longer time to accept it, but since I’ve accepted that sarcasm and wit are more present and pleasant in my writing than sincerity and gravity I’ve had a lot more fun writing.

I’ve taken a rather long time to make the tool parallel for this blog but what I’m talking about here pretty much equates to a level. I tried for a long time to write poems about how I really felt and how the world made a difference in my life that was relatable to the lives of my readers – but it was all bullshit. I wanted so badly to be serious in all that I wrote that I skewed my writing. When I entered the Sigma Tau Delta writing contest at Cal Poly a couple of years ago I tried to write a serious horror story, something realistic and gritty and angry and deeply terrifying. All of it was utter crap, and so in a moment of desperation I wrote a poem that started with these lines: “On a night run thick with mystery/and choked by swirling fog/I made a travesty of chemistry/and my homework ate my dog.” The poem, “My Homework ate my Dog” won first place in the contest and opened up a new world to me as a writer.

When I was writing based on the “so what” factor I was convinced that all of my writing had to be deep and meaningful – my essays had to speak to everyone and strike my readers dumb with the majesty of the ideas they communicated; my poetry had to be grave and deep and dark and mourn the human condition; my fiction had to be intense and real and target core issues of morality and reality to be considered worthy, and I was miserable when I was writing because nothing I wrote communicated what I wanted it to. When I changed my perspective on writing from asking “so what” to asking “what does it do” I was able to write essays that were informative but wry, poems that were silly and relaxed even when they were serious, and fiction that tends toward the fantastic more than the fatalistic and is easier to read, write, and appreciate as a result.

“So what?” is a question that convinces writers that everything they create has to be substantive – that your writing HAS to say something meaningful and insightful and original or it’s not worth the paper that it’s printed on. “What does it do?” is a more honest question that encourages writers to really examine their writing and ask what THEY are doing and how it works for them.

Some writers are better than others at writing substance and some writers are better at writing lightly. You wouldn’t expect Cormack McCarthy to publish a three-act comedy for the stage and you wouldn’t expect to unearth an Oscar Wilde novel about humanity in the face of the apocalypse. It’s up to you, not your professors, not your parents, not your society, to determine what kind of writer you are. In truth you’re probably somewhere in the middle, like most writers are, but you need to determine where you fall in the silliness to substance continuum. Don’t beat your head against the desk trying to write like Proust if it doesn’t make you happy; don’t try to light-heartedly prance through writing comedy dialogue if it makes you miserable – take a good, hard look at what you’ve written, figure out what you like the best, what you were happiest writing, and what topics you’re comfortable handling. Do this with your academic writing, your fiction, your poetry and you’ll learn a lot about what you should be writing as opposed to what you think you should be writing. Grad Students, I’m talking to you too – don’t start a thesis on Swift if you’re more knowledgeable about and comfortable with Austen. Look at all your writing, ask yourself honestly “what does it do?” answer yourself honestly about what it does, and get down to the business of getting comfortable in your writing skin.

Don’t get complacent, though. Challenge yourself and experiment, write things that make you uncomfortable but write them your way. Practice, practice, practice and grow as a writer, as substantively or silly as you need to be.

Now finally a quick note on the other half of the title of this blog. Many people feel that to write substance they need the aid of substances – this is bullshit.

You’re a fucking writer. You are a writer sober, you are a writer drunk, you are a writer tired, you are a writer rested. You are a fucking writer. You don’t need to be drunk, high, amped on caffeine, jittery from nicotine, or hideously lonely to write. Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson, Ginsberg and Hemingway are dead – most of them died too young – and dead men shouldn’t be your guides. Write. Just write. Rely on yourself alone to get you through the pages and stanzas that lie before you. You are better than the need for some substance to give you substance, and if substance isn’t something you do well naturally then no substance will help you pour it out on the page. We don’t need another generation of young, dead poets – we need people with the strength to keep poetry alive.

I’ve once more run too long but I’ll be back next week in spite of that, and I’ll be discussing Building Material for your Material. Until then, Cheers, and be excellent to each other, Dudes.

- Alli

Depression. Yay.

"Well, to be honest, I'm feeling kinda depressed"

-The depressed whale

Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven, Hunter S. Thompson and Hemingway put shotguns to theirs, Fitzgerald killed himself with alcohol. And those are just the ones who come immediately to mind. It bothers me immensely to contemplate how many of the great artists and thinkers have suffered to the point of desiring to entirely blot out their own consciousness. A study was conducted over the span of ten years that found “between 59 and 77 percent of the artists, writers, and musicians suffered mental illness especially "mood disorders," compared to just 18 to 29 percent in the less artistic professionals” (Reynolds).

I’ve been thinking a lot about this, about depression and the artistic/academic temperament. “Artistic” and “academic” are not commonly paired in such a manner, and I’m sure many people would take issue with said pairing. However, I place them together here because academics, at least in the humanities, are appreciators of art and certainly dedicate a majority of their lives to the study of art, whatever their art form of choice may be. So, in this way, artists and academics spend their lives in the service of art, either by means of creation or examination.

Considering the suicide rate and carelessness rate (and by that I mean accidental overdose) among artists and intellectuals, I think we can easily see the connection between depression and the people who spend their lives in service to art. But, why is this so? Why is it that the people who create the most beautiful and moving renderings of reality are also the ones who suffer the most mental pain? I think it is often mistakenly believed to be the fault of solitude. People are quick to point out the isolationist and misanthropic tendencies of artists and intellectuals. And there is something to that notion. Often, intellectuals, in their skepticism, deprive themselves of opportunities for community. However, I don’t think this isolation is the primary culprit.

It is a lack of ignorance that causes depression. And when I say “ignorance,” I stress “ignore.” The purpose of art is to examine the world; it does not allow for ignorance. In order to create art, you have to face the world and humanity and all of their flaws, head on. If you hide under the covers, you won't see a thing and you won't have a thing to write about. And if you appreciate art and study it, you are spending your time with commentary on the world, and again, this does not allow for ignorance or hiding from reality.

People say that artists and readers are cut off from the world, but nothing could be further from the truth. Artists (and I'm thinking specifically of writers) and readers (and all other appreciators and consumers of art) are by no means cut off from the world; in fact, they are the only ones who are fully engaged in it, the only ones who are taking the time to really look at it.

In Midnight in Paris the character of Gertrude Stein says, “The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.” (I hate to quote a character of a literary figure, rather than the literary figure herself, but it’s a great quotation!) Considering how many dark and depressing tales the great artists have created, I’m reluctant to fully agree with this statement. After all, so many artists seem to succumb to despair. But maybe, whether they succumb or not, all great artists also find/create “an antidote.” Maybe even something like The Bell Jar, in all its gloominess, is, in its beauty, the perfect medicine for the illness of emptiness. That story, and all other great ones I can think of, does not send a message of hopelessness- it sends a message of truth. It is not cheesy or falsely hopeful or even defeatist. It is honest- life is difficult and we don’t ever know what’s waiting around the corner. Art, if it is truly great, will always be a variation of that message and it’s a message that by its very expression brings despair and comfort, as does anything worth experiencing.

Until next time,

Leena

Reynolds, Susan. “Is Depression Inevitable for Artists and Creative People?” Gather.com. 19 Feb 2006. Web. 23 Jan 2012.

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474976731117

"The Depressed Whale." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_dEtaNx2Vc

Letter to the Leaves: The Literary Cannon Cigar Lounge -Members Only-

My Fellow Contributors,

If you have been following me on Twitter (@BermudaAFL) then you may have read that I am currently reading the Italio Calvino novel, If on a Winters Night a Traveler. This novel is unlike anything I have read during my time as an under grad. His manipulation of personal pronouns, the novel's self awareness and awareness of other has left me reading, re-reading, and discovering new nuances with each sitting.

But why has it taken me this long, almost four years, to come across a book that has sparked more classroom discussion than any other in my time at Cal Poly. A book that I have been motivated to read, not because of grades, but because of the desire to discuss it with my fellow colleagues outside of the classroom.

Looking back on the courses I have taken, they were filled with good books from various time periods. However I feel as though I have been trapped in the 18th, 19th and very early 20th century for four years.

What has been missing from my literary education are authors who have yet to be given the members-only key to the literary cannon cigar lounge.

Where Walt gently selects a cigar from the box at the bar and delicately places it in his mouth, before Henry James grabs his book of matches and begins to light him up. Where Milton and Edwards are debating nature's place in divinity, and Shakespeare is on stage, skull in hand, spouting forth a dramatic monologue (To be or not to be...). Where Equiano trades tales with Cabeza De Vaca and over in the corner Bradstreet and Dickinson are quietly abstaining.

I am there, only as visitor. Shuttling from one author to the next, ease dropping on conversations, catching the punch line of a joke here or choking on the smoke from a Whitmanian aphorism there. In all this haze and muted chatter, I struggle to find meaning. But with the guidance of my professor, who at this time is heaving haughty laughs with Franklin, I sift my way through the leaves of ash, and find a purpose.

But where is Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Tennessee Williams, Anthony Burgess, and Gabriel García Márquez? (to name a few)

They're outside. Waiting for the critic/bouncer, who stands at the door, to give them their key. You can see them through the sounds and smoke, peering over his shoulder, staring at you.

Beckoning you to say a word on their behalf.

As Always,

Undoubtedly Yours,
Bermuda