Ah, the life of a writer. It conjures up all kinds of dreamy pictures in our minds. When I think of a writer, I think of Hemingway working in a small Parisian cafe with his notebook and pencil and a glass of spirits beside him. Or Virginia Woolf in her studio writing with the French doors wide open. But mostly, I think of that well-worn stereotype of the tortured writer, baring emotions and feelings on paper, opening a vein and pouring it onto the page for all to see. All the while, he’s got an amber drink with a few ice cubes at his arm.
So, in pursuit of that image, I employed a friend with a large liquor cabinet to help me choose my drink of choice. This time, it was the Scotch. All serious writers drink Scotch, right? Well, if I’m going to do this right, I might as well go all out. (Remind me to tell you of the time I bought Maraschino liquor because it was Papa’s favorite, thinking it was the cherry kind. Big mistake.)
Here is the wide array of Scotch I had to choose from, only one of which was mine. And yes, I tried them all and took copious notes (as any writer would do) to make sure I got what I wanted next time. I would also note that when I posted this photo on my Facebook page, my writer friends were the first to comment and offer to help me choose. There, proof enough?
First off, let me thank my good friend and neighbor, Sherrie Z., who is not a writer but rather a fabulous clay artist. I have many pieces of her work adorning my home, including this awesome 2.5 foot ceramic bird that I refer to as “The Master Bird.” It was a gift, left on my porch one night, for which I am forever grateful.
Back to the Scotch. The best, in my uneducated opinion, were The Balvenie, Doublewood 12, The Glenfarcle 25 (which I cannot afford and neither could Hemingway I’m sure), and the Dalwhinnie 15, which was quite smooth and drinkable with a honey finish. I did drink all of them, just to make sure, but it was just a small sip each time so I could make an informed decision. (OK, two of the Balvenie, but why not?)
No, I don’t suppose drinking will make me a better writer. And once I finished the boxing match out back after drinking the Scotch, and got my fishing pole out, I got down to the important task of writing. Well, OK, I went to sleep instead. How the hell did they do it?