Chapter 10

10

I've been having trouble writing lately.

The keys of my typewriter clack out of time, the rhythm of my words is slightly off the beat, laying back like a drummer not completely sure of his signature.

My day is spent unsatisfied with my own ability to create, questioning the phrases I use for articulation. Failure is my one true fear, and it stifles me until I can barely breathe. Has my open invitation into the literary realm been revoked?

It's the fear that brings the bottle to my lips, a coping mechanism in which the struggle for words is eased by the consumption of alcohol. While drunk I have an excuse for my ineptitude, a refuge from my inner perfectionist. His articulate accusations are quieted by the intoxication.

If I can no longer write, I am no longer a writer. If I am no longer a writer, then I hardly exist at all. My body is just a vessel for the words, and simply nothing more. If my spirit is gone, so am I. What more is left to be said?

I stand, wobbly from drink, and make my way to the kitchen. I should eat. I haven't in days, but like Old Mother Hubbard, I have no bone in my cupboard, but plenty of booze to get drunk again. My life is a Modern Greek tragedy.

Or a fucked up nursery rhyme.

I can't tell the difference anymore.

Jamie loved my words, not my habits. She's gone because I've lost control of both.

Without my words, I am nothing. Just an empty shell in a revolver.

The air in here is stale. I wish someone would open a window.