I DON’T DRINK ENOUGH TO BE A WRITER


Been listening to Kenny Chesney’s new album a lot lately. It is a very melancholy album and I love it. There are two upbeat songs because everybody wants radio hits, but still, it is enjoyable.

This song gets me a lot. And it does make me feel like I don’t drink enough to be a writer. I never get depressed. But I know many writers do. One of my hero’s Robert E Howard committed suicide very young and apparently wrestled with mental demons most of his life. The man could write though. To this day he is one of those scribes I read and shake my head at his turn of phrase. There is a power there that I envy. So I wonder does my lack of misery, hell my lack of emotion make me a worse writer? I have no conscience. Not to speak of. I do not get depressed or sad. I do not have a deep well of anger bubbling inside from a troubled childhood. I miss my kids when they are not around. I love my wife. That is about it. I walk through life, not dead inside, that would be a wrong statement. I love life.

I just happen to be extremely happy and content in that life.

I do think I have great ideas for stories and a knack for characters. So I am probably fine.

Philosophically, I will take a wonderful life with a hit on my writing ability over being a maestro of language with a suffering to match my talent.

Back to the original thought. Seriously, if you haven’t heard this song, go listen to on Itunes or wherever you get your music.

And BTW 1,049 words on the new WIP The Excalibur Key.

HEMINGWAY’S WHISKEY

Hemingway’s whiskey, warm and smooth and mean
Even when it burns, it’ll always finish clean
He didn’t like it watered down, he took it straight up and neat
If it was bad enough for him, you know it’s bad enough for me

Hemingway’s whiskey

Ah, it’s tough out there, a good muse is hard to find
Living one word to the next, one line at a time
There’s more to life than whiskey, there’s more to words than rhyme
Sometimes nothing works, sometimes nothing shines

Like Hemingway’s whiskey

Sail away, sail away, three sheets to the wind
Live hard, die hard, this one’s for him

Hemingway’s whiskey, warm and smooth and mean
Even when it burns, it’ll always finish clean
He didn’t like it watered down, he took it straight up and neat
If it was bad enough for him, you know it’s bad enough for me

Hemingway’s whiskey
Hemingway’s whiskey
Hemingway’s whiskey

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