We all know not to drink and drive. "Drunk Dialing" is another no-no; although, these days, I suppose it's called "Intoxi-Texting." Wait did I just coin a phrase?
But I digress. Writing after having imbibed can be nearly as disastrous. Sure, no one will die from it. Except for a little bit of your soul.
Last weekend I had a few beers. Okay, okay, a few too many beers. Thought I had a great idea for my newest book, the kind that seems fantastic at the time. You know, sort of like where you dream a cool idea, dwell on it in a semi-lucid state the rest of the night, then the cold harshness of morning smacks you and you say, "what was I thinking?"
Anyway, late that night, I set out to write Chapter 12 in my latest work-in-progress (I'll never use the term "WIP." Writers like to use it, but for the longest time, I thought it stood for "Women In Prison.").
When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, my head was implanted on the keyboard. Square key imprints were tattooed on my right temple, making me look like a cyborg or something.
Here's the first draft of Chapter 12:
"The sky opened and kkkklllllkkkklllllkkkkkllllljjj kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk (I think my head must have settled in by this point) kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkk........"
It went on for several pages.
I think major revisions are in store.