Filed under: scotch

Scotch and a Promise

I have it in my head that writers drink scotch. Good writers, that is. The ones who, although they may not be famous, pour their heart and soul out on paper. At the very least, scotch-swigging writers pen intriguing prose worth reading. That’s my theory, anyway. In the past several years, three members of my family have had books published in one way or another. Great books, all unique but each worth reading in its own right. My aunt Margie started it all with an incredible collection of photos and words pertaining to the lives of Benedictine women. Her work was followed by my grandmother’s memoirs, then my dad’s first installment in a series of slightly embellished stories about his childhood. Recently, Aunt Margie published a book about growing up in a family challenged by hereditary blindness. What’s interesting to me is that these authors were spawned from both sides of my family. They don’t expect me to write, but their endeavors allow me to indulge in the idea that maybe someone would be interested in reading something I have to say. Long ago, I wrote. Nothing spectacular, mind you—mostly teenage sap and cheese, poetry for various girlfriends, drug-fueled philosophical rants, fantastical stories that were started with good intentions, but currently dwell unfinished on floppy disks that have since lost their ability to regurgitate the bits they were sworn to protect. I’ve had plenty of ideas for stories, books, poems—but that’s what I’m good at. Ideas. Actually seeing those ideas become something tangible has been somewhat of a challenge for me. Actually, that tends to be true for many aspects of my life. That, however, is fodder for another story. Today I made a decision. Today I came to the conclusion that I’m going to write. Something. Anything. I don’t care if it sucks monkey balls, as long as I see one of my ideas make its way to a keyboard, (pen and paper are so 1980s.) So I Googled “best inexpensive scotch”, stopped by the liquor store, and started thinking. Which one of these ideas would reign supreme? Which one would pop my literary cherry? None of them. While sitting here in my recliner, choking down a glass of rot-gut scotch, I got more play from the idea of the idea of writing than I got from any previous ideas. And if that sentence made sense, I’m guessing your running nose for nose with me in the scotch department. Thanks for playing along. The truth is, I have no clue what I’m going to write about. No clue if it will be short stories, poems, full-on novels, blogs, or screenplays. I’m not sure if the sentences will garner a PG rating, or if they’ll dip their wicks into the R pool. I’m leaning towards R—never been a fan of censorship. Sadly, this means my daughter won’t be reading anything I write anytime soon, but I’m okay with that. I don’t think in a PG sense, why would I limit my writing to such juvenile political correctness? In addition, I think I’ll steal emulate my father’s approach to writing. Based on the truth, but dipped in scotch and bodily fluids to make it a little more entertaining to read. So if you’re reading something I’ve written, and it sounds slightly familiar to you, it may be based on something you and I have experienced together. Please don’t get your panties in a bunch if I happen to throw in an extra orgasm or two, or paint myself out to be a little larger than life. Much like scotch, narcissism seems to fit nicely into a writer’s personality. So here I sit, trying to figure out how the hell people drink this shit. Pre-pubescent brainchildren kick around in my head, wondering why it gets hard when they rub it, or why mommy was screaming daddy’s name the night before. Pop a Ritalin, kiddos—you’ll all have your chance to be somebody.