I make a lot of drinking jokes online. As a writer, I think it’s in the contract. It goes something like, “Drink copious amounts of coffee, grumble, write, research to procrastinate writing, switch coffee to booze around sunset, write, crash, repeat.” 

The thing is, I’m not really much of a drinker. I never have been. I can’t relate to CW TV shows with high school kids at parties. Then there’s the inevitable dilemma of trying to hide the smell and stumbling from two bottles of Smirnoff Ice from parents.

Snore.

I never understood why someone would want to waste a Saturday night doing something they couldn’t remember, when instead they could spend 12 straight hours searching for all the Stardust locations in Legend of Dragoon. 

                                    
                      I’m going to spend the next 3 hours screaming at
                             a cheating superboss. Fuck you, Faust.

In fact, I didn’t have my first taste of alcohol until I was 19. And it was purely by accident. 

I was at a LASO (Latin American Student Organization) Christmas party with other members and Spanish professors. The professors were kind enough to make sure those under the drinking age still had champagne to toast with, even though it was the non-alcoholic equivalent of Sprite in a fancy glass. 

                                    
                                            The champagne is a lie. 

As you may have already guessed, I got one of the “grown-up” glasses. I vaguely remember saying to a friend, “Boy, that sure is some tasty Sprite.” What a rebel, I know. When my professor realized the mistake (and it was painfully apparent to anyone in the room because my face glowed a nice tomato color), he laughed and assured me he would not inform the authorities.

Just in case he decided to be a dirty double-crosser, I called my husband—then boyfriend/manslave—to walk me back to my dorm room. I may or may not have been crying from the fear of getting caught when he answered his phone.

When you grow up with barely functioning alcoholics as I did, you learn quickly just how much alcohol can fuck up your life. Watching Dawson’s Creek kids drink and have fun has a different meaning when you see your dad drink himself into a coma. Nightly. Explaining to the fire department why your dad was setting a tree on fire in the backyard, naked, is not something they teach you in 7th grade Civics class.

                                    
                                       He…had a really rough day at work.

When I do drink, on that rare occasion—minus that first exposure—I handle it surprisingly well for a girl of my size. I think I was wrong in saying my first drink was at 19. It was probably MUCH earlier. It likely goes way back to my zygote stage in life. Drinking’s in my blood, and I handle it like a pro.

I say all of this because it took me a long time to learn about moderation. “Responsible drinking” wasn’t a phrase I heard growing up. (And it’s certainly not one your friends teach you in college.) To me, drinking was either: you don’t drink or you get so shit-faced you can’t remember when you fell through a coffee table and why you tattooed Eddie’s name and number to your butt cheek.

                                                   I hate Eddie.

Since then, I’ve learned it’s okay to have a glass of wine before bed without having to worry I won’t wake up until 4pm the next day. (I think they call this, “growing up.”) In fact, if I’m having a particularly difficult time writing, a glass of wine will loosen me up enough to squash that asshole internal editor.

As one of my very favorites said: “Write drunk; edit sober.” ― Ernest Hemingway

The moral of this post (I think?): Drink and write. Don’t drink and drive, people.

NOTE: As a zygote, I partied with all the best people, including Bill Cameron. He’s really awesome and writes some amazing books. He also wears a snazzy vest. You should check him out.