Embracing the writing profession has a number of daunting hurdles.  Among the highest of these pommels is the undeniable marriage of writer & liquor.  I can't picture any famous dead writers, men or women, without a scotch/whiskey/bourbon/red wine/port/digestive in their hand.  I mean, the drink may be on the table beside them if their off-hand is weighed down by their cigar/cigarette/pipe/joint.

And while the 20's through the 70's, and then also the 90's (oh 80's, you know you loved your coke best) lauded the noble misunderstood alcoholic; drinking problems jumped the shark somewhere in the mid-2000's.  Now in 2013, enjoying some dark liquid in the afternoon creates long-spreading whispers of "intervention" on the wind.

But now that I've developed somewhat of a writing routine, I am finally beginning to understand why the sauce and script have always gone hand in hand.  Come afternoon, I can no longer throw down any more milligrams of caffeine.  I am the preverbal, 'wired'.  Not only am I vibrating, but my tushie has squished itself into a series of 90 degree angles so as to accommodate the wooden chair I've strapped myself into for the past four hours.  It is time to change locations.

I don't want to go home.  It's not that home is bad, per say.  But at home lies doggies and laundry and dishes and vacuuming and countless other routine responsibilities that can be put off til evening if I don't bail out now.  Panera is always open, but even their free wifi can't compensate for the way I am forced to re-experience their cinnamon-bun frosting coating the inside of my arteries.

So what's left?

I'll tell you what's left, it's the gorgeous mother-fucking bars that spin their signs to WELCOME just as my literary hands require a table.  A noble beer is an exceedingly small price to pay for the jovial camaraderie of a bar hall, and oftentimes a booth all to myself.  So I grab a quick pint and sit down to start tip-tapping away.  And as my hands spin into a blur of beaks pecking away, I no longer have the desire to relocate again.  And so a whiskey it is.  As the pages scroll down and my premise deepens, I feel the tinge of a buzz working its onomatopoeia along the base of my cranium.  I type through the gentle elation, realizing that anything I write from here out will be equal parts genius and in need of later revision. The final drops of liquid drain from my rocks glass and any momentum I have accumulated towards conclusion spills out and over of the lip of my electronic paper.  In the glow of my computer monitor I see the light at the end of the bottle, both literally and literarily.