I am a writer and I drink.

Not very unique, is it?

Non-writers might assume that most writers are alcoholics and with good reason. Bukowski, Carver, and Williams are all linked together by the fact that they are revered authors… as well as alcoholics.

This has me wondering: does alcohol make you a better writer?

I Have Experience, but I Am No Expert

I want to start off by stating that I am not a mental health expert and this story is neither a thesis or rooted in any kind of scientific fact, and should not be treated as such.

The only real hope I have for this story is that it may serve as a conversation starter and a point of common ground regarding a mental health issue that surrounds not just artists, but all kinds of people. …

My fingers are typing on a MacBook Pro, but my mind is on my typewriters. I have two: a 1958 Olympia SG-1 (standard), and a 1946 Royal Quiet Deluxe (portable).

Even though both of these machines have the same basic function, to print words to paper, they offer very different writing experiences. It made me wonder — Is one better than the other?

The Dilemma

“Which kind of typewriter should I get?”

The first thing I recommend to anyone that asks me this question is to decide between a standard or portable sized typewriter. I liken it to choosing between a desktop computer or a laptop. …

I remember the moment fireworks became my life’s work, but it’s rare that I get asked about it. You must be a bit off, like me. Then again, who doesn’t like the lights?

I didn’t think that day would be the beginning of anything . For all my eight year old mind knew, everything had already happened to me; it was my turn to happen to everything. The year was 1932 and the Dep — now pay attention, kid. It was you who asked to interview me, was it not?

Right.

Anyhow, my parents had a small brick home in the middle of Missouri. It wasn’t much, but it was well built and sat on ten acres of land that was once used for small farming. My father wasn’t interested in that kind of thing, so when the house became his he quit working on the land and became a traveling salesman. I guess he thought it would take him around the world safer than joining the army would. I remember wishing he had joined, then maybe he would have come home with interesting stories to make Mom smile. …

The year was 1864. The worst man to ever pass through Cimarron was pointing his pistol at the most honorable man to ever live in Cimarron.

The noble man was a bank teller by the name of James Walsh, who knew full well whose gun was pointed between his eyes. There was no mistaking Llywelyn Chaney, otherwise known as the Southern Devil. He was a tall, lean man in all black from boot to hat, except for one distinct article: a red, hand carved, wooden mask resembling the fallen angel.

“You know who I am,” the Devil said, not so much a question but an assumption. James Walsh could feel a rock caught in his throat blocking the words from coming forth. He simply nodded in reply. “Then you know that this conversation is a rare moment of mercy. If I wanted you would already be dead on this floor.” James could see dry blood spattered along the barrel of his pistol. …

I don’t think I have ever been more excited to earn a penny. I’m new to Medium and like many on this platform my goal is to create quality content, with the hopes of making some money for my effort.

It Finally Happened

Not So Long Ago

I worked in biologics for a major pharmaceutical manufacturing company. It was a good job, as far as day jobs go. Some of my coworkers became my best friends and the company treated its employees well for the most part. I just knew that it wasn’t what I wanted my career to be.

After over a year of saving and preparation, I finally landed my first major writing client and decided it was time to take the leap. Leaving a steady paycheck to take a chance on myself was simultaneously the easiest and most difficult decision I’d made to date.

It was the moment I worked so hard for and it was finally coming to fruition. …

July 11, 1958

Howard’s hand reached for the car radio dial and filled the cabin with static noise before landing on a clear station. He turned the volume up after realizing he could still hear the bunch of stringed cans rattling against the pavement behind him. He then started ripping his bow tie off bit by bit to relieve the unbearable pressure it put on his jugular. The struggle seemed infantile as he turned his attention to his wife.

Mae sat in the passenger seat, leaning back to make room for her pregnant belly. In all those years that she dreamed of her wedding she never imagined her dress being a maternity fit. …

We see two lovers looking at each other from outside an all brick building with warm light escaping, as if to suggest that this home is a haven from the cold, thick air outside. Within a matter of one frame, everything changes and Tawaine Noah stands by himself within an open space. Already, the window into Tawaine’s visual and auditory spectacle Maybe It’s For The Best, performed under the project Vancouver China, is one that flips everything we know on itself.

“Maybe it’s for the best. We started on shaky ground at best”

A painful sentiment that we have all heard and used as a mode of comfort. As vignettes of a blissful past life play before us, we sense the love that used to be shared between the characters. Moments of hindsight give evidence of the pair’s selfish and distracted behavior through doubled figures, sinking beds, and blurred out backgrounds. …