Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

While I tipped back a delicious Blonde Ale and shared words between fellow writers and others who had attended the reading where I had just read, one of the familiar faces from the event approached me. He began simple enough. 

How do you go about getting published? It's a god damned mine field on crutches. You have a lot more bad luck than good, but you keep going anyway. Life is short. Words go on.

How do you write? I write the way anyone should write. Honestly. No bullshit. Most importantly not to yourself. It's OK to embellish a bit for the reader. Write what you know.

The questioning and conversation went on like this for some time while I began another bottle of the Blonde. The brewing beer had been carried out to chill. I grabbed a cube of cheese and listened to the chatter. The inquisitive one came to my side and put his arm around my shoulder. 

Whether it was the free-flowing, home-brewed beer that was, at that particular point in time, adequately coursing through myself and the bodies surrounding me in a garage warmed by brewing beer or not, I'll never be sure.

What I want from you is this. He trailed off. I stood apprehensive of what he would ask. My Blonde was almost finished. I needed more.

What I want from you is...I want you to tell me what to believe in.

Words didn't come to mind. How does one answer a request like this? Though this fellow was certainly under the cloudy powers of free-flowing alcohol and I could have answered by telling him to believe in a Rock Lobster, it wasn't that easy. I pondered it. 

What the hell do I know about beliefs? My own are simple. Books and truth. Knowledge. The earth is round. Good scotch. Writing. Art. Women's legs. And yet, here was a man, intoxicated or not, asking me to tell him what to believe in. 

"Yourself," I said. What else could I say? It seemed honest enough.

He stepped back and considered my answer. At least he seemed to. I thought about it myself. Probably more than he did. Thanks, man, coupled with a hand on the shoulder.

That was it. After that, he stepped out the door and into the frigid night air. 

I don't know whether I'll ever meet up with him again. Or, if he'll even remember the conversation we had and what I had told him. If it actually meant anything or if it was merely the booze speaking. The only thing I know for sure is that it's a memory which will stay with me for some time. If not, always. It's the abnormal experiences that find a niche within the confines of my memory.

I've got no problem with that.