Writing Under the Influence

It’s not as easy as it sounds

My mind just got a little muddier

Early this week, after surgery, I woke up with an IV pumping me full of fluids — some of them opioids. I expected that — but that was the problem — I didn’t know what to expect.

Would I rave like a lunatic about the creature lurking in the corner with vicious-looking fangs, five eyes, and wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt? Or would I believe my backside had sprouted roots and was now permanently attached to the roll-away bed? Would I scare my mom?

Please God, don’t let me reveal my darkest secrets to the nearest passerby. Please. Please. Please.

I’ve never been one for recreational drugs, so I feared the popular opioid people on the street clamored over would fashion my naïve, malleable brain into a spaceship. Then, I’d find myself rocketing into a sketchy galaxy on the dark side of nowhere and run out of fuel.

Forever.

Thankfully, none of that happened. Instead, my speech was clear and succinct. I felt lucid. I was in total control, thank you very much. I’d be lying if I denied my smug satisfaction of having a brain unfazed by a drug in the same class as heroin and fentanyl.

Once an hour, a nurse came in to check my vitals and see if I needed anything.

In the middle of the night, I asked for another water. I slid the plastic cup her way to make it easier to reach.

“Sure thing! I’ll just take this little guy off for ya this time.” She slid the paper wrapper off the end of the straw and winked.

My jaw dropped. “Have I been drinking out of a wrapped straw all night?”

She shrugged.

I was aghast. So much for my mental tenacity! Under the opioid’s spell, my mind had been whipped into mashed potatoes that couldn’t find the gravy. What other weird things have I been doing?

Things felt just as “off” at home

I was released that morning. There wasn’t a whole lot to do at home besides heal.

I had enough pain killers to get me through the rest of the week without being distracted by throbbing aches or shooting stars radiating stings and misery.

I’d already told my clients I was taking the week off, so I didn’t feel any pressure from my job.

But what about my own writing? Couldn’t I work on that? Maybe jam out some articles and make some progress on my novel?

It sounded reasonable. So, the past few days, I’d gather my laptop, notebook, pen, water, ice pack, blanket, and phone and get cozy in the recliner. My doggie was perched on my ankles or my shoulders, depending on her mood.

I’d come up with a poignant line, a wicket plot twist, or a fascinating article idea … and then I’d fall asleep, only to wake an hour later with drool pooled in the hollow of my throat.

But I wasn’t in pain. No, siree! I didn’t feel a thing.

I had a lot of writing dreams. While I typically dream in color, these dreams were vivid shades of greens, reds, and bright blues. I’d been toying with writing a children’s book for about ten years and now I was the main character in bright yellow, rubber boots on the adventure of a lifetime. I hadn’t thought about that story idea in a year, maybe more. My passion for it has been reignited.

I started typing out topics I wanted to write about in quick bursts or scrawling quick sentences on Post-It Notes before I inevitably was squinting with one eye shut, struggling to get down my thoughts before the lights in my head went out again.

Conclusion

Today is my fifth day of writing under the influence, and I can’t say I’d do it again on purpose.

While there were moments I rode on a high current of creativity, I also experienced false feelings of creative genius. In the light of day, or prior to my next dose, the prose didn’t seem that impressive. Sometimes it sounded forced and trite.

However, my scattered and random thoughts that generated article ideas is a list I will be using in the weeks ahead. Some of the topics are ones I’d never consider in my right mind, but they may end up interesting stories.

I am pleased to have gotten my mojo back on the children’s book that keeps rattling around in my head. Maybe I’ll be able to get started on that this winter. At least I’m thinking about it again.

As for the embarrassingly low number of pages I produced for my novel, there is very little to salvage. Although, I did come up with some metaphors and lines of descriptive prose that make me proud, the bulk of my effort could have been put to better use by talking to my plants or yelling at the TV.

After this week, I’ll be back to writing sober and I’m looking forward to it. Writing under the influence was fun to try, but like interrupting a bank robbery or petting a wild lioness, you don’t have to do it twice to remember it wasn’t the best idea.

For me, pens and pills don’t mix.

One thing’s for sure, Ernest Hemingway got it right when he said, “Write drunk. Edit sober.”

Wise man. I raise my glass to my lips and swallow another pill. I’m going to have a lot of editing to do on Monday.