I’m finishing a bottle of $3 wine right now. I’m not a “wine guy” at all, but today, right now, I am. This begs the survey: what are your writing vices? What self-destructive rituals help get words on paper? Or, if not “help,” what vices will you continue to entertain in hopes that one day they may help?
Me, I love cigars. Their smell has become associated with writing for me. Much like the smell of coffee to heavy eyelids, cigars prime my synapses and tell my head to start working. Can I write without cigars? Of course. But it’s a vice, so I’d prefer not to.
Are all vices some form of depressant? According to University of New South Wales Psychology Professor Joe Forgas, writers tend to be depressed. Are vices, then, necessary?
What’s yours?
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Is Hungarian porn a “vice”?
If you watch it right it is.
I can’t write and drink alcohol. Focus goes, typing dexterity goes, kind of a waste for me. That’ why caffeine is nice. Nicotine. Speed, man. Speeeed. Harden the focus, keep the fingers alive.
Well, I thought writing was a vice in itself. At least the way I do it. But yeah, alcohol, caffeine and cigars work for me.
Agree with Mel. I used to think I had to have a drink to write, probably because I read too much Bukowski for a while. Once I got into my groove, though, I only want lots of water and tea. Usually drink a few cups of coffee before I start writing, then switch to Yerba Mate or English breakfast for the bulk of it. The last five months, too, I need the score for ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD playing or I can’t really write. Well, I can, but I like it better that way.
niiiice, nik. i roll in and out of music for writing time. if i’m alive, the music fades into the background. if i’m dead, i dance in my chair and nothing gets done. so, maybe i’m alive then too, but not seeing anything. or hearing anything. well, not anything in my head, but….music. not mine.
yeah. something.
I love to listen to music while I’m wasting time on the internet, but when it’s time to write, to create, I need it quiet. Can’t hear the voices in my head if Amy Winehouse is moaning, “No! No! No!”
Whatever’s handy. I am beyond my indulgent years, but I still recognize the particular day’s vice in the poetry’s lines. And I still use whatever means available to attain the voice– or maybe it’s just an excuse to get high, drunk, spun, whatever . . . the chicken or the egg?
I turn into a super chain-smoker when writing. Cigarette, after cigarette, after cigarette. I’ll sip on some vodka sometimes as well. But if I find that I’ve been sipping to the point of inebriation, then I gotta stop writing.
When stuck, I like to light up a bit of Ms. Jane. I can’t write, rather, I shouldn’t write while smoking it, but it’s just the thing I need to shake up my thoughts and give me new incites or viewpoints…unfortunately, this usually leads me down a thousand different absolutely brilliant directions which are almost all forgotten later on
) It’s like fishing with your bare hands in a pond that’s full of quick, slippery fish. Hard to catch and hold onto one, but when you do, it’s definitely a keeper.
Wait…did I even just make any sense? Sorry, day after Christmas. Tired and at work
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