Several years ago now I wrote a story called “Without Crutches.” Ah, distinctly I remember, it was before the wonderful journal Glimmer Train closed down. I was going through one of my phases of actually reading journals before submitting, and I’d read a tale or two in said Train about characters with addictions.
Perhaps going back to the almost mythic Edgar Allan Poe, writers have struggled with mind-altering substances. Those of us who write see the world so differently and crave new experiences in an almost manic way. Alcohol, drugs, and even religion can lead that way.
“Without Crutches” was a story defending writing without using foreign substances. As the child of an alcoholic, this path looks quite dark to me. Besides, my imagination has a healthy libido. Yes, even sex can lead to altered states of consciousness. Of course, my story found no publishers.
I recently read about Stephen King. Actually, I read about him often. I hadn’t realized he had a cocaine period. I was disappointed. Must writers of the macabre indulge in drug-fueled voyages? Isn’t it possible to use the existential terror of just getting out of bed to drive this vehicle whose windshield is so dirty you can’t see clearly what’s in front of you?
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the occasional drink and even sometimes get story ideas after having a beer. I don’t drink to inebriation, though. It’s too dangerous. And if my work ever gets noticed I don’t want someone to say it was an after-effect of some controlled substance.
Life is scary. I’ve never used drugs. They’re too scary. I don’t judge those who do, but as my stories show, religion can be just as dangerous. I’ve given up on finding publishers for “Without Crutches.” The story exists as a testimony, and that’s enough. The world can look distorted without being seen through the bottom of a glass. And we limp along.
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