A comedian friend of mine once did a routine pondering why so many famous talented writers were drunken assholes. Charles Bukowski had just died and he was the main focus of her rant. Good example I thought. It made me do an inventory of my own favorites and found that many were indeed drunken assholes.
I have since been dismayed that perhaps my own writing career might be doomed to obscurity unless I started boozing and copped some serious attitude. I have attempted both on occasion with feeble results. Much to my horror it turns out that I'm a very quiet and subdued kind of drunk. Hardly the stuff that attracts legions of cult-like readers.
So what's a sober, mild-mannered writer to do? Where's the passion? What gets the blood pumping?
For me, it's cycling. We're not talking a casual ride in the park. When I'm on my bike I'm always pushing as hard as I can, going as fast as I can. An adrenaline rush? Yes. The stuff of legends? Hardly. It's depressing that the only narcissism I can muster is actually good for me.
At least I still have the blood curdling nightmares so maybe there is hope for me yet.