Writing is weird. Each time I sit down to write, the story pours out of me and leaves me achingly empty, and I wonder if I'll ever write again. I could write in my head - or on the computer - for days, waking in the middle of the night with the perfect adjectives to describe the latest drunken character or wacky bar incident, getting up at 5am to write, or staying up til 2am, and I write it all down and then nothing. Empty. I have no faith that I will find words worthy of writing again. I think, maybe I need a mentor. An inspiration. A drink.
Nothing compares to a glass of wine when one is seeking to enter the creative realms of the deepest, darkest corners of the brain. Okay, a good smokey porter compares. Or a shot of Finger Lakes Distilling rye. Or a dirty martini. What's your drink of choice to keep the words lubricated when you write? Do tell.
On a side note, Leah just made me the most amazing meatloaf (ground turkey-carrots-chard-apple-onion-chipotle-tomato glaze) in the world. It paired beautifully with a bottle of (not Sheldrake Point) Argentinian Vistalba Corte B 2005 (thanks, Adam). And now I write.
And may I add, kudos to Sister Ellen, I shall remain fully incapable for the rest of my days of using one space after a period instead of two.