Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget

Tilting the wide brim of a martini glass toward the sky to catch whatever plunked into it.

I did not. My writing was a kind of literary karaoke. I aped the formulas and phrasings of older critics whose work I admired.

That was the worst sin of all: trying too hard.

Cramming food into my mouth brought a rush of rebellion, but I was never sure who I was fighting.

the person who wanted to play but could not bear to play. To want the microphone but to stand in the back. To know there is a book in you but to never find the nerve to wrestle it out. I was so screwed up on the issue of performance. It’s like I didn’t want anyone to hear me, but I couldn’t shut up. Or rather, I wanted everyone to hear me, but only

Tilting the wide brim of a martini glass toward the sky to catch whatever plunked into it.

I liked to curl up inside my own suffering and stay for a while.

I wanted to fast-forward through this dull segment. I want to skip to the part when I was no longer broken and busted

I knew AA worked miracles. What nobody ever tells you is that miracles can be very, very uncomfortable.

Addiction was the inverse of honest work. It was everything, right now. I drank away nervousness, and I drank away boredom, and I needed to build a new tolerance. Yes to discomfort, yes to frustration, yes to failure, because it meant I was getting stronger. I refused to be the person who only played games she could win.