WriterType

Image by Shiny Things via Flickr

A friend of mine, many moons ago, pegged me as wanting to be the type of writer who would drink too much and spew prose like others would spew their last meal. I knew he was right even then, that I would gladly embrace any excuse for my mediocre storytelling. The only problem is that writing is one of the only things I just can't do when drunk. I can still verbalize a good joke and weave an amusing tale for the crowd while intoxicated. I just can't project a complete thought onto the page.

When I first began to think myself a writer, I romanticized the pains and trappings of the profession. Images of my future self bubbled up through my imagination like freshly poured champagne. I'd naturally be a success, I thought, but I'd avoid the spotlight and shun my fans. I'd be gruff, haggard and unkempt, wear an old torn and stained sports coat, wreaking of gin or whiskey. My publisher would loath me and my editor would dread my idea of a finished product. Though I would fail to know war, like Hemingway I would be brutal, tenacious, stoic and periodically inconsolable. Yes, this is the terribly wonderful man I wanted to be.

No one employs me as a wordsmith and likely never will, but I'm still drawn to the practice and the persona. Perhaps it was my nascent familiarity with these traits that prompted my journalistic desires at all. Maybe I didn't want to be a writer. I was just psychologically suited for it. Of course I have no novels to speak of and no screenplays to promote. I write now because it keeps me grounded and gives me purpose. It keeps me alive.

However, if anyone wants to start paying, I can start shopping for sports coats.