gluten intolerance

     I've sometimes thought that writers who drink -- think Hemingway as a classic example - do so because they kind of like feeling a bit depressed; drinking helps them lean toward their sadness in order to access deeper emotions so they can write. For them, drink is a catalyst between the gluten of depression and the yeast of creativity; it allows them to cook up some tasty writing. I'm not including alcoholics in this line of thinking, by the way -- just people looking to loosen their noggins.*
     I know the creative momentum that comes with feeling sad. When I was in the thick of cancer and all that, I couldn't stop writing. Mild melancholy and moderate struggle are useful for getting a spark of inspiration going; witness much of the great poetry, great music, great road trips, great howls at the moon.
     But it has to be mild melancholy. It doesn't work when you're lost in the darkest cave. Creativity can kick in, though, when the light is dim and there is a bit of cave-y feeling, like a fort around the lower bunk bed.

     Now, as I sit here with an impulse to write and no muse in sight, it's clear to me that writers who drink or get high are just cheating. They're stuck, and they know that if they can get themselves into an altered state of mind, cerebral ice jams will break apart. Hemingway was no different from the kids who share each other's Adderall and then find they've written a darned good history paper, by gum. Or people who indulge in cannabis and finally get traction on that essay when they speak from the perspective of their cat.

     Me, I'll occasionally have we what call a "girl beer" -- example du saison being ginger beer -- but not more than one. That single serving has never inspired anything other than a good burp or two, and I'm not game for going beyond that. I confess that I am both jealous and judging of those who allow themselves to cheat and hot-wire their imaginations with substance.
      You need some catalyst for creative juices to flow, but I want that to come from light, not from darkness. I know you need both elements -- for contrast and depth perception -- but still.
     I will admit to the thought that if I did get sick again, the upside is that I could write. Those of you who write, too, will forgive me for that terrible, fleeting notion. Yes, it seems I can write a bang up eulogy, but who wants grief as their muse? Not I.
     So much better is when I am amused and feeling up. That happens more routinely when Laura is around: she is my muse and, god bless her, my amusement; my own mind-altering catalyst. With her away most of the time, my creative mind gets kind of dense -- no yeast; just gluten.
     We've been talking about this when she is home, and we're trying to figure out how I can find some leavening within, so I can write.
     But this feels ridiculous to me: too quiet a life to be creative? Tell that to Thoreau. You can bet he wasn't walking into town to pick up a six-pack of Bud to get his writing groove on.

     I will say that I am a little hungry and thirsty after this post. Could be a good sign.

*Here I pause for a few minutes to google the relationship between eggnog and noggin -- a mighty close one which you will need to investigate on your own. I'm talking etymology, not ingestion.