400

Monday 3/11/24

Bill Wilson founded Alcoholics Anonymous. He was sober for thirty-six years. Then, in the last month of his life, when he was dying of Emphysema, he asked his nurse for whiskey on four separate occasions (the first being on Christmas). He didn't end up having any, and he died without taking another drink.

I think about things like that, because they remind us that you can't assume anything. I'm not an alcoholic. I could take a single drink and that would be it. But I did abuse alcohol for twenty years, and it was killing me. Creating havoc in my body, especially with my heart.

My abstinence from drinking has to do with my future. What I'm trying to do. The bigots of publishing. If I give myself over to drink, I'll die, and these bigots of the publishing system will win with my death.

I see people in that system who are truly bad people and clearly bad writers--Emily Gould, Blake Butler--who make a big show of drinking, use the mention of for points and props. These are evil people who are equally as untalented. And because they are bad at writing and bad people, they are rewarded by the system for this behavior.

Here is the rule: Anything truly good will be hated by the people of the publishing system. It will be a source for animus and envy. That's what you have to overcome. I didn't lie about what I went through so I'd get attention and book deals. I didn't whine, carry on, whore myself for attention. I didn't exploit anything or anyone. I didn't publish a dead loved one's private journals and then say, "Oh, no, I drank so much, but I'm pretty much perfect and heroic, now give me coverage for my terrible behavior and writing and I'll take some money, too, though I suck at writing and I suck as a person."

The publishing system rewards that. It rewards having no talent. Being evil. Lying.

I made a decision at a time in my life when anyone else, going through that--something that only gets worse to date--would have ended that life. I did it--and do it--with will, strength, and no help. No friends. No support. No quality of life. Not a single thing to look forward to. Ever. While totally alone. And I was--and am--hated more for that.

Anyway: Yesterday marked 2800 days, or 400 weeks, without a drink. I don't assume that just because I woke up today that come midnight I'll be at 2801. Go out and earn the day. Earn everything. That's how it should be.