It started off innocently enough. A splash of whiskey in my afternoon coffee. A shot or two before sitting down to write. I told myself it helped get the creative juices flowing. And sure, my writing had more "edge" to it with a little liquid courage coursing through my veins.

But then the deadlines started piling up. The content well ran dry. I found myself staring at a blinking cursor for hours, willing the words to come. That's when Jack Daniels stopped being my muse and started being my crutch.

At first it was a glass in the morning to loosen up, then a few glasses in the afternoon to maintain my buzz. Soon I was waking up with whiskey on my breath and falling asleep with an empty bottle by my side. Jack went from friend to lover faster than you can say "alcoholism."

They say write drunk, edit sober. But when you're never sober, the editing just stops. I churned out rambling screeds and half-baked theories without a second thought. My writing became less coherent, but more uninhibited. I poured out my drunken soul onto the page.

For example....

The trees whisper to me at night. Their branches creak and moan in the wind, voices only I can hear. "Join us," they beckon. "Become one with the forest." Perhaps I should abandon this human form and transform into a tree. Take root in the soil, stretch my limbs toward the open sky.

Would photosynthesis satisfy my longing soul? Could timber sate my restless spirit? The sage pines call, their ancient chorus a siren song luring me toward arborial metamorphosis.

And what of the birds flitting amongst the forest canopy? Do they mock me with their flighty freedom? Their hidden language taunts my earthbound ears. Only as a tree could I understand their tittering tongues.

My fingers have taken root already, fused to the keyboard in wooden permanence. Each clickety clack resonates through marrow and cortex alike. I must prune away these extraneous branches, chop back the tangled bramble of my mind. Reduction to the core, the true essence of being. Like bonsai I shall guide my growth into enlightened form.

Yes, I shall become the ancient oak, solid and immovable against the fickle winds of fate. My bark will be armor, my leaves a cloak of wise serenity. No longer shall I waver, for my roots will be one with the soil. Come what may, I will stand tall as the forest primordial.

Now where did I leave my chainsaw...?

The posts started getting more clicks, more comments. People were concerned, but they couldn't look away. Like a car crash in slow motion, my descent into madness generated both outrage and entertainment. I started writing for the reaction rather than the craft...

-to be continued-