Work is getting in the way. I have turned into a morning writer. Not by choice, it’s just When I wake up all I want to do is spill words on to the page. It feels like there is an endless torrent of imagination waiting to reveal itself. But slowly, as the day drags on, this feeling dissipates. At 5am, when the alarm goes off, I am itching to throw in the towel, quit my job, and just sit in front of the page and shed some ink. But bills and rent force me into my work clothes. A coffee, half milk and two sugars, is downed. Teeth are brushed, keys are found, wallet and phone gathered, and by 5:15am I am on the road.

The ideas keep forming in my mind for the couple of hours drive each morning. The urge to turn around and write instead of work won’t leave me. Like some kind of wild beast chasing me down the motorway. Eventually the radio drowns out these thoughts and I focus on my pitiful job.

Who knows how many great words, unwritten chapters, new characters, witty lines, whole novels, have been lost to this godless pursuit of earnings. It depresses me. By the time I get home from work, hypnotised into a half coma by the never ending motorway and mentally stunted by a brainless job, I just can’t stir up the same feeling I wake up with.

I have no real interest in money but I sometimes dream of getting a decent advance for a novel, or a winning lottery ticket, just so I can wake up and write without the distraction that distracts us all from real life. I bought a scratch card yesterday. I won £2. A regular at the pub bought a scratch card last week and won £300,000. I guess I bought the wrong scratch card. I’ll try again tomorrow.

I used to write in the evenings. I didn’t have to be up early so my writing habits were forged from the writer stereotype. I drank whisky, smoked, and wrote. The whisky got the juices flowing. It felt like an endless elixir that could stimulate the strange part of the mind and release the angry and odd sentences from their cages. The reality of drinking to encourage writing is that the first two glasses get you going but by the third glass you’re not really making much sense. Letters and whole words appear to be missing from meaningless sentences when you revise what you’ve written the next day. But it’s fun though, drunken writing, when the drink seems endless and the characters seem charming and perfectly sardonic.

Anyway, this post has gone on for too long and I don’t really know what its point is. I just miss the freedom of writing whenever the hell I felt like and want to be released from the castration of sensible adulthood. Pah.

4 thoughts on “The Castrated Elixir

    1. I guess in a way the thought of your job getting in the way of the thing you love is what drives us to write more so that maybe one day we can reach the dream of living off our words so we can finally escape work and live the life of freedom we assume to be at the end

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