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Authors: Augusten Burroughs
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floor, the kind from the in-flight magazine ads. I knew the show host had been wearing a bathrobe on the air, because it was a Slumber Sunday segment. I also knew he was not wearing any underwear, because somebody had spilled coffee on his lap in the makeup room.
All of this knowledge was instantly contained within that single line, and it was just too much for fourteen words to hold, so I had to keep typing, or my mind would explode.
In my life, I had swallowed countless drinks and lit enough cigarettes to burn down the world; I had fallen in love and, once inside of it, spun around with my arms outstretched and shattered everything; I had lost many things; I made mistakes; I made a single pot roast, and still my wrist held on to the scar. But one thing I had not done was this, whatever this was.
I was an advertising copywriter, though advertising wasnât writing so much as puzzle solving. I wrote in a diary as a kid, but my childhood felt impossibly distant. When I came home from rehab, I wrote, but that felt as messy as life. I had never seen a true and breathing world blocking my view of the computer screen. I had never experienced the draining of all I saw through my hands as I smashed down on the keys.
I did not stop writing until I could not operate my fingers any longer. Then I drank.
But I didnât reach the room, the place, the mind-set, the zone. Drinking failed me.
The next morning, which arrived much sooner than other mornings had, I sat back down at my computer in an uncomfortable chair, and I wrote again for as long as I could.
I drank that evening, but less.
The day after that, I wrote much later into the night and drank only what was in the neck of a fresh bottle of scotch.
On the fourth day, I wrote straight through all the sunlit hours, past the night, and into the pale early morning.
I forgot to drink. I just forgot to do it.
The sixth day of writing set off an electrical friction in my mind, and I remembered, I can drink. I donât have to go out. Almost two full bottles . This propelled me forward with a sense of joy. There would be no need to shower or dress or leave the apartment. I was spared my solitary humiliation at the liquor store cash register.
But I did not drink. There just wasnât room for it.
Because what was this? What the fuck was I writing? Who were these people, more of them on every page? How did I know about teleprompters and revolving television sets? Where had the knowledge of a Toys âRâ Us store come from? Had I ever even been inside of one? These people who were exiting my fingertips; they were far more real than any I knew in the flesh. The things that happened while I sat in the bluish glow of my computer screen made me feel something harsh and addictive: alive.
Day seven was another twelve straight hours of writing, and then I stopped. Because it was finished. Whatever it was, it was done, gone. The spirit had moved through me.
I could drink now.
Except I didnât.
Because everything had changed.
Iâd written a book. Whether it was a good book or a bad book didnât matter. It had chapters and page numbers and was, therefore, a book.
I could write a book. I had done it. There was proof of it just before me.
It was huge. I wanted to write another book immediately.
I didnât want to drink.
This was better. This carried me much further away from myself than drinking had ever managed to do. This should be a criminal activity, punishable by imprisonment or worse. The feeling it gave me was larger than the feeling of drunk.
I was in my underwear, and my bloated stomach felt heavy and soggy as it rested on my thighs. I could smell urine. I could smell everything.
I was new. This was different. This was it.
I died.
I was born.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âYou need a literary agent,â Molly said. She had one herself and had just sold her first novel. Molly was an advertising copywriter, like me. We sent pieces of
All of this knowledge was instantly contained within that single line, and it was just too much for fourteen words to hold, so I had to keep typing, or my mind would explode.
In my life, I had swallowed countless drinks and lit enough cigarettes to burn down the world; I had fallen in love and, once inside of it, spun around with my arms outstretched and shattered everything; I had lost many things; I made mistakes; I made a single pot roast, and still my wrist held on to the scar. But one thing I had not done was this, whatever this was.
I was an advertising copywriter, though advertising wasnât writing so much as puzzle solving. I wrote in a diary as a kid, but my childhood felt impossibly distant. When I came home from rehab, I wrote, but that felt as messy as life. I had never seen a true and breathing world blocking my view of the computer screen. I had never experienced the draining of all I saw through my hands as I smashed down on the keys.
I did not stop writing until I could not operate my fingers any longer. Then I drank.
But I didnât reach the room, the place, the mind-set, the zone. Drinking failed me.
The next morning, which arrived much sooner than other mornings had, I sat back down at my computer in an uncomfortable chair, and I wrote again for as long as I could.
I drank that evening, but less.
The day after that, I wrote much later into the night and drank only what was in the neck of a fresh bottle of scotch.
On the fourth day, I wrote straight through all the sunlit hours, past the night, and into the pale early morning.
I forgot to drink. I just forgot to do it.
The sixth day of writing set off an electrical friction in my mind, and I remembered, I can drink. I donât have to go out. Almost two full bottles . This propelled me forward with a sense of joy. There would be no need to shower or dress or leave the apartment. I was spared my solitary humiliation at the liquor store cash register.
But I did not drink. There just wasnât room for it.
Because what was this? What the fuck was I writing? Who were these people, more of them on every page? How did I know about teleprompters and revolving television sets? Where had the knowledge of a Toys âRâ Us store come from? Had I ever even been inside of one? These people who were exiting my fingertips; they were far more real than any I knew in the flesh. The things that happened while I sat in the bluish glow of my computer screen made me feel something harsh and addictive: alive.
Day seven was another twelve straight hours of writing, and then I stopped. Because it was finished. Whatever it was, it was done, gone. The spirit had moved through me.
I could drink now.
Except I didnât.
Because everything had changed.
Iâd written a book. Whether it was a good book or a bad book didnât matter. It had chapters and page numbers and was, therefore, a book.
I could write a book. I had done it. There was proof of it just before me.
It was huge. I wanted to write another book immediately.
I didnât want to drink.
This was better. This carried me much further away from myself than drinking had ever managed to do. This should be a criminal activity, punishable by imprisonment or worse. The feeling it gave me was larger than the feeling of drunk.
I was in my underwear, and my bloated stomach felt heavy and soggy as it rested on my thighs. I could smell urine. I could smell everything.
I was new. This was different. This was it.
I died.
I was born.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âYou need a literary agent,â Molly said. She had one herself and had just sold her first novel. Molly was an advertising copywriter, like me. We sent pieces of
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