There are a number of famous authors who spent much of their time in their cups. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner. I’d raise my glass to them, if I had anything to drink.
Over the past week of “dryness”, I’ve discovered that my creativity has reared its head. I’ve stopped staring, angrily, at the blank page, pen in hand, poised to write.
That’s my sign.
Four pages I’ve eked out over the last three days. And, to be honest, I feel great.
Over the last fourish years, I’ve spent way too many evenings with a beer in my hand. Or a bottle of tequila whispering to me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still whispering, it just isn’t in the house.
Too many dollars, empty calories, and wasted hours have been given to that friend.
I fear that it’s time to part ways for a time.
Perhaps we’ll meet again, under other circumstances.
Salute 🫡
Julie M Anderson 