Our hands itch to be used. They cry out for a task to fulfill. If you give it to them, they will thank you or perhaps they will hate you for it. It does not matter either way for they were given to us to do things with.
Type. Clap. Write. Hold. Throw. Squeeze. Punch. Crush. Paint. Wash. Peel. Grip. Mold.
We all have our vices. Writers aren’t known as drunks, madmen, and emotionally unstable nocturnal beasts creeping around the edge of society for nothing. Drinking, drugs, and dying young are some of the many curses that the artist suffers. But delving into the dark depths of the mind can be unsettling and we must find ways to cope with it.
Lately, I’ve chosen coffee and sweet snacks. I’ve been able to kick the sweets (and am on my way to losing some much-un-needed weight) but the coffee is my crutch. More so than even red wine (which I drink many nights when I am writing), that black brew calls out to me with a siren song that I cannot ignore.
If I’m not drinking wine for creative work, I’m drinking coffee to straight up take care of business. It’s not the best but it can’t be all bad: I’m not dead yet and I’m almost 30. That’s pretty good for an artist.