Contrary to popular belief, Hemingway never wrote drunk. F. Scott Fitzgerald, however, did. This might explain why I’ve always preferred to read about the elaborate parties of West Egg millionaire Jay Gatsby as compared to the promiscuity of war veteran Jake Barnes. Based on my personal experiences, there’s always been a little more honesty in something that was written in the midst of an intoxicated stupor, than in something written for the purpose of getting a decent grade, or possibly, impressing another. A certain bias comes with knowing that what you’re reading is, excluding the editing, someone’s purely unfiltered opinion.
I’ve never been the type to have doubts about what I truly think just because my beliefs stray away from those of the flock. I could spend my entire life silently side-commenting on someone even though the rest of the world worships the ground they walk on. Believing in something, however, does not equate to being comfortable with letting everyone else know that you do. Writing entails backbone: something that, when in the right mind, I appear to lack.
What are you supposed to do when you want to talk about something that you know to be valid, but there’s a tiny nagging voice at the back of your head telling you that nobody’s going to care? Personally, I look for a way to drown that voice out.
A particularly heavy string of events a few years back caused more than a few sudden sob-driven bathroom runs; the school year was about to close, and I was nothing short of a teary-eyed mess. A good friend suggested that we talk about things over a few bottles, and before I knew it, I was writing the most raw, stripped-down soliloquy to ever grace my otherwise monotonous script. At that time, the consequences seemed trivial to me. All that mattered was that I wrote every grief-stricken word without constraint, and I loved it. A week after, summer had turned up and was purged of whatever hurt was left in me: I was okay. The voice was drowned out; and since then, I’ve acknowledged alcohol as the best way to put it on mute.
Once I’m drunk, the rest of the world ceases to exist. Rather than being a tiny, voiceless speck of dust, I am the entire universe in constant entropic motion: everything that ever has been, everything that is, and everything that will be. Nothing else needs to matter, except the thoughts in my head and the ink from my pen.
The way I see it, I write drunk for the same reason that most people avoid it: the lack of censorship. Whether it be about the entrance exam that tells me I’m only good enough for second-best, or the perennially present feeling that comes and forces me to believe that I don’t deserve any of the good that life throws at me, there’s always a deeper emotion to be felt about what goes on in my life: one that I find it so painstakingly difficult to expose. Drinking reveals a certain kind of courage deep inside me that I never fully realize until I’m alone in my room at two in the morning, one shot away from passing out, but still insisting on writing; still looking for a way to voice out my opinion without having to care whether or not other people will like it.
As truthfulness envelops me, I am able to express emotions that normally, I am obligated to bottle up. It’s always been a habit of mine to remember that everybody in this world is cripplingly sad about something; and that the only differences between us are the ways we block out the pain.
My relief comes from honest, unrestrained writing. What I note down doesn’t necessarily have to all be positive, however. While literature is an excellent way to view one thing through different lenses, sometimes, it can be therapeutic to simply acknowledge that something is wrong. I may not be able to fix everything, but it does make me feel better to know and accept that there are just some problems that can’t be solved this easily, and that it’s okay to have them.
Intoxicated writing, therefore, acts as a catharsis: a healthier way to purge myself of whatever repressed emotions I may be denying when I’m sober. In my opinion, writing about something, no matter how bad I am at doing so, will always be the best way to let my feelings out. At the end of the day, I’d rather have incoherent essays and horribly written free-verse poetry, instead of bruised-up knuckles and tear-stained cheeks.
To look at things through a macro perspective, I write drunk simply because sometimes, there are aspects of myself that I can never truly accept when I’m sober. There will always be things about my life that I choose to ignore, despite knowing that I’m inevitably going to have to face them someday. What I find so beneficial about drunk writing is the confidence and relief I get from it.
Some people drink to forget, and some people write to remember.
What most people fail to realize is that sometimes, there’s a way to do both
I made it past EN11! and 2015!! Such achievements!!!
This was my first College essay. Drafted drunk, edited sober. Cheers!
