Certainly my poetry and prose sounded much better in my youthful days, under the swagger of a few gin and tonics consumed along Amsterdam Avenue or during the hazy nights watching the Vltava River flow past. But the next morning, hangover in hand, my writing would return to a desk drawer. My writerly confidence tucked away alongside it. Writer’s block, at one point, seemed to loosen itself with each boozy sip.
The connection between successful writing and consuming copious amounts of alcohol is well documented. Tom Shone’s recent piece “When Novelists Sober Up” presents a study of luminaries whose fondness for alcohol seemed in concert with their literary successes. Some lost their confidence as they sobered up. While other writers regained their footing, sometimes exceeding expectations during their bouts with sobriety.
Far better writers than I have consumed far more alcohol than I have. But I never felt that my writing really improved in proportion to the alcohol I put away. If anything, I have learned that writing and creativity seems to be only slightly served by imbibing. For me, for instance, editing loses it luster when I’m buzzed. I want to CREATE during that wobbly time. But the creations always need some massaging. And, well, doing that when sober seems to often be off the mark from the passion in which the writing first transpired.
Thankfully, as my consumption has declined (to nil), the more I’ve written and the more readable (I believe) it is.
My confidence has finally caught up with my output.

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