I am a firm believer of only writing sober. I’m not overly interested in alcohol or drugs anyway and only drink socially, never even just to wind down after a long day. The one bottle of wine I own was gifted to me nine months ago.
Creative people seem to be rather divided on the subject with half never working fully sober and the other half making a principle of it.
With me it’s simple enough. When I drink I’m with friends, so very likely nowhere near any of my writing, though at least some means of taking notes on me. I’m out to enjoy myself, pretending to be extravert.
And when I’m drunk or at least tipsy, I’m not focussed enough to write. I’ve never even wanted to seriously sit down and write in such a state. Usually I just want my bed.
I was tired when I started writing this, very much so. I switched off my laptop and tablet and laid on my bed, eyes closed. Sleep was tugging at me. I could have been charmed into giving in. Were it not for my desire to write.
So there I was. My thoughts adrift in a sleepy brain, only loosely tied together by ideas I’ve been contemplating, names for characters that are asking for definition, for faces.
Eventually I pushed sleep aside for a while longer, turned over on my stomach and placed a pillow under my chin to allow for a more comfortable writing position.
And I wrote.
This kind of writing does not usually overcome me in the evening, though it has happened just as I was drifting off to sleep. I have mostly experienced it in the waking brain, early on a Saturday morning.
In a strange way I am, every now and then, writing under the influence not of alcohol or drugs but maybe melatonin (I do write best when it’s dark outside, in those small hours of the day).
Or dreams perhaps.