
How To Become A Published Drunk
Chapter One — The Wet Bar

You thought I would come right out of the gate with some divinely inspired thought that would immediately lift your prose into the stratosphere, didn't you?
You need "fuel" to achieve lift, newbie-hack-that-you-are; ergo, first, a drink!🍸
It's not that you can't get published without drinking...it's that you won't. How do I know, you ask? Hell, ask me after I've downed this next one.🍸
Ernest Hemingway, a seriously devoted alcoholic and deadly articulate scribe, once said, "Write drunk, edit sober"; to wit Hunter S. Thompson plagiarized Ernie by stealing the saying for himself, becoming an infamous author and ruthless drunk, eventually blowing out his brains with a Dirty Harry .45...
But is it really plagiarism if the originator of said saying already blew his brains out with a double-barrelled shot gun?
In my now post-cocktail drinking thinking, I think not! Every writer has to start [drinking] somewhere, sometime...
Now, back to the bar...
You NEED ONE!
And I don't mean the top of your dusty, grease-laden fridge where you put the half guzzled bottle of Canadian Club your best friend forgot to take home last Saturday as he staggered out your front door...I mean a serious, kick-ass liquid establishment, permanently built into your basement rec room.
Advice#1 Do NOT install it in your writing hovel. Make sure you have to work for those drinks by walking down a hall and down a flight of stairs...if you make it too easy to imbibe, you'll die before you hack out the words, "The End" to your first epic work...and nobody likes an unknown dead hack, no romance nor longing there...in other words, Pace Thyself, will ya!
Now, for funding...if your grandma dies and leaves you her "fun money"...
Surrre, like that’ll happen...😒
Reality Check#1 Take out a bank loan for the booze. A biggin’! Youll need at least 50 bottles, to start, including boxes of glasses yet to be broken, yet to be smashed, a swizel stick (look up the word, sober hacks!)and your own pop mix canisters and beer kegs. Apply for a government grant to pay off said loan and call the expense, "Research & Development". Government employees have no sense of imagination, they get a comfy salary no matter if they accept your application or not, and who says it doesn’t take liquid courage to R&D? Ask any horribly unpaid computer nerd!
Get that friend, you know, the same loser who left that bottle of CC on your fridge, to build the bar. Tell him he owes ya big for getting that biker off his ass last Saturday. He remembers nothing and he needs your place as a secondary crib anyway when his old lady kicks him out for drunkenness and public displays of nudity (long story).
Once you've completed all of the above, return here, exhausted with wood splinters in your fingers and dead broke, and I shall continue, knowing now we're all on a level [okay, who's foolin' who...tilted] playing field.
It takes time to become a great hack...and you eager beavers have the patience of a squirrel on Speed! Chill that bottle!🍾
~~~
Chapter Two — The Equipment


Nooo...not that kind of equipment!☝️

No, you pervs, not those either! ☝️
More like this👇,

There we go...👧
The right equipment is essential to craft next year's Great American Novel.
Now, depending on the type of hack you are will dictate what you need...
If you were born just shy of the Mesozoic Era, a good old Underwood typewriter is your best friend.

Reliable, hardworking, this beaut is made out of the ironclad carcasses of cockroaches, so it can survive Ground Zero of a nuclear bomb blast and keep on tickin’...[B.J. Thompson, are you drunk now? You’re mixing mottos here, that’s a Timex watch that keeps on ticking...geez].
Before attempting to use, and if you didn’t live through both World Wars, you may want to do some serious pinky-finger push-ups, 'cause short of a sledgehammer to the A and L keys, those suckers won’t hammer down on the paper for love nor money. A bonus feature to the Underwood: if your agent or editor says your manuscript pages stink, it can be used as a deadly weapon...if you can lift it. The Underwood manufacturers always claimed their typewriters were "portable"...for dinosaurs from the Mesozoic Era, that is…
For those of you a wee bit younger, may I suggest the,

IBM Golfball typewriter as your hacking buddy. Still just as indestructible, still just as "portable," this baby was the electrified genius in its '70s hayday, allowing your fingers to ream off 24 A’s and 13 L’s with the feathery light touch of your whimpy pinky fingers. Again, if agent or editor hates you and all the crappy pages you spit out at him, you can recreate the "good ol' times"

Hunter S. Thompson had with his IBM, and take it outside and go all Dirty Harry .45 calibre on its Sherman tank-like chassis. It won't help your writing much but your neighbours will be quiet for once and you may get far less annoying calls from your agent/editor.
Now, if you're one of those diehards, and you know who you are, where paper and pen are the only divinely inspired objects worthy of your art, may I suggest a Guttenberg Bible quality of paper and a 10 grand Mont Blanc pen? Oh, you say you haven't sold a manuscript yet and are finding yourself nibbling on the edges of your dollar store quality paper for nourishment? Well then, stay calm and carry on, and if the ink is coming out of your cheap Bic pens in embarrassing blotches upon your nibbled pages, tell your agent/editor you're working on a retro piece delving into the atmosphere of starving artists who hacked away in the 1920s Paris Montparnasse District. The dude edits all day, he won't even notice.
Now that you’ve assembled your equipment, you’ll need a coaster to the right of your keyboard. Yesss, finally, we return to the centre of your writing universe — the sacred alcohol-addled cocktail.🍸
If any of you are ancient enough to remember a computer game called,

Leisure Suit Larry, the original box came with hi-tech floppy disc

and your own cocktail napkin.

Even Larry knew such an object was vital...whether you are chattin' up busty bar flies or hacking out the sequel to The Great Gatsby...coaster or napkin is a must! Style, colour, size, thickness, I’ll leave that all in your capable hands...but unless you’re typing on an arborite table after hours in a nursery school, urbane comportment and furniture protection is necessary to your overall writer mystique.
~~~
Chapter Three — The Idea

Oh, so you think you're smart, do you? You believe you have the brightest idea since Edison screwed in a piece of bulby glass and lit himself up like a Christmas tree.
I thought we covered this. You want to be a published DRUNK, REMEMBER? So, you already drink or are serious about taking up the art of imbibing, while you're writing. Either way, your time drinking and damaging grey cells or your time stocking up your brand new bar has far out shone the churning of your idea-machine.
Result: Your original story idea SUCKS. SERIOUSLY. PATOOIE! I HATE IT. SERIOUSLY.
Solution: Go on an adventure, "out there," in the real world...

If you live in the US, take the cocktail with ya. If you're in Canada, swig it back and go. Either country, DON'T DRIVE! YOU'RE HAMMERED! If you live in Europe, stay inside. You guys have way better wine cellars anyway. As for the rest of the world...okay, can't think that far and wide, I'm hammered right now.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the Idea. *taking another sip🍸*
So you've taken my advice, done a Jack Kerouac

(if you don’t know who HE is, you should be shot! Google him before I load my Dirty Harry .45!), gone out and scratched and sniffed the world and NOW you have the Idea of all Earthly and Godfilling Time! Holy crap. I’m dead jealous (that’s what I get for staying inside and drinking). Now, all you have to do is start hammering those keys...
“Now wait a darn tootin' sec!” you say.
“No thought, no planning, no plot lines, no smelly herring died the colour red? What you on about? Have you lost your mind?! You’re down a quart, go top up your glass!"
You're right. *topping up my glass🍸*
A great idea is not enough. Now, walk down to that rec room, hit your brand spankin' new bar, pour two fingers of something strong, swipe some coloured soap from the guest bath —

you know, the dusty, stinky froo-froo soap made in the shapes of seashells nobody in their right mind will ever touch — and start writing a story outline on the wall. Yes, you read me right. The wall. Any wall will do. One of the four which surround you now. What, you think paper is more logical, more reasonable...DO YOU WANT TO BE A PUBLISHED DRUNK OR DO YOU NOT?! STARTING WALL WRITING! NOW!
Thank you. Now, was that so hard?
Draw a bunch of squares...noooo, not your parents, silly…rectangles, really, and inside each describe a different scene of your book. Take a hack saw and saw out eac...
"Uh…,” *raises hand*
“Yeah?”
“Sawing out walls???”
Okay. Take photos of each soap doodled scene and go back upstairs. You’re ready to write.
Put your cocktail glass on that napkin or coaster, lay your cell phone down by your side and begin hacking out Chapter One. Entitle it "The Reaping".
"Why? That’s not the title of this chapter."
“JUST DO IT!!!”
"But my book is about a rubber robot who is a second cousin twice removed from the green Gumby doll (Gumby doll?, you ask…GOOGLE IT, YOU YOUNGSTERS!) falling in love with an oil filter from a 1970 Pontiac GTO."
“Entitle the flippin' chapter ‘The Reaping’!!!!!!”
As I leave, in disgust, to fill a kiddie pool full of Mermaid Water…

to recover from the readers' ineptitude, The Essence of the Published Drunk will continue...🍸
~~~
Chapter Four — The Edit

You freakin' DID IT!
You bloody well nailed that Mother!
The Draft is DONE! You do the Dance of Joy!

The draft, duffus...not the dang book!
That's like saying I climbed to the top of Mt. Everest in my mind...crikey! Pathetic!
Now you're faced with The Edit. The Freddie Krueger slice, dice and julienne attempt at prosaic genius!

EMERGENCY! DON'T MOVE A MUSCLE 'TIL YOU REFILL YOUR BAR!
A mere 50 bottles ain't gonna cut it now, boy! You're in for hurt, a world of screamin', cryin', cursor cussin', page tearin' hurt.
The torture will begin with the first sentence, the excruciating pain not subsiding until you either die in your desk chair at a quarter to four in the dawning a.m., or you reach the words, "The End." Either way, the finality will come with total psychological destruction, leaving you void of all feeling and raped of all dignity.

Did I mention it'll be bad?
Very…very bad…
Oh, I did? Okay then! POUR A DRINK!
Wait!
Don't lose hope!
There’s an upside[Pregnant Pause...illucidated by a bunch of white space and a semicolon with no real purpose here》] ;
Hell no! Just joshin' ya. There’s no hope. There’s no upside. Why do you think polished writers polish off 26ers by the truck full? What, you think they’re birthed right out of the writers box all erudite and overflowing with literary awe?
You silly, silly hack, you! Just when I thought we were getting somewhere...
It takes LIQUID COURAGE to face your words, know they're crap, and make like a serial killer with a brand new machete.
But, if you persevere, hang onto the edge of your desk when you hit Select All then punch Delete, your sobs will subside long enough that you’ll be able to crawl down to your newly refurbished rec room bar and cry anew in your ice cold beer.
Then a thought...a glimmer of hope, joy, even, casting its light upon you like the

tiny heart growing within the mean, old Christmas Grinch, you’ll see through the letter destruction and realize there IS a kernel of genius left living among those pages!
You rush back upstairs, stumbling twice — your blood alcohol twice the limit — and you witness a warm glow pulsating from your screen. You have achieved perfection. You crawled your way up the literary Everest and looked into the face of the Word God and by golly, He smiled back! Happy Endings do exist! The world is at one. Peace…….[Again, a Pregnant Pause, procreating a plethora of semicolons like frisky bored bunnies》] ;;;;;
Peace-posh! You’re full of poo!
Now enters the Publishing Demon[insert big scary baritone moan here]

He rears his ugly head and slithers into your office like a vermin scourge.
There ain't no peace 'til you Publish, you pie-eyed, pitiful playwright! Go get a refill. You're down a quart!
~~~
And lastly, but not soberly…
Chapter Five — The Submission

So you think you’re done.
So you think you’re a genius.
So you just KNOW your book is the next great literary thing since toaster strudel.
How could it not be, right?
I mean, YOUR thoughts, YOUR imagination, YOUR skill at the literary Shock & Awe is right up there with invading Iraq (and we know how well that went down). The WORLD will be begging for your book. That's a given.
Uh huh.
*a very long, very uncomfortable silence*
If I were you, I'd carve out the pages of a real book, stuff your book pages into the hole, close the book, replace it on your personal library shelf and apply your title with duct tape to the book spine. Now, your book is a book and all without the bothersome and messy need to commit suicide.
Or, like these good hacks below, you could make lemonade out of your literary lemons;



This, my furry wittle unpublished Medium hacker is where the

booze meets the mix.
(Pun most likely intended.)
It takes the edge off the biting reality and allows a constant flow of grandiose thinking, that at Last Call even YOU are special, even your words divine. (The people who actually make bottles of liquor called Writers Tears gave up long ago on their Great American novels and are now carousing around the Florida Keys on yachts too expensive even to be mentioned in the iconic novel, The Great Gatsby.)
But you, no, not you. You are in it for the Art, for the selfless toil, for the joy-sucking angst, to live your life alone, lonely and chemically dependent, utterly buzzed in the effort to create and convey a crystal clear, culturally-infused message.
It’s not that you always hated yourself, I’m sure, right up until every oxygen-breathing agent hated you for you and your unmarketable book.
If it ain’t fixed, don’t break it.
It’s no fun until someone loses an eye.
Perverted sayings like these now make sense to you, and only you.
Rest assured, ol' boozy one, rejection has made you who you are today: a well publicized drunk with not a word in print. It was your life’s goal after all, and by golly, you did it!
You are now encouraged to pass out on your empty bottle laurels!

The End
Hit the heart if you liked this article and Comment at will. Good or Bad, I’ll smile. I’m hosed.🍸
