A 4 am coffee induced, self-fueled writing extravaganza. An interlude for a wordsmith. The world is asleep. Maybe I am too. But the writer in me isn’t. It all began as a mistake. But soon disguised itself as an obsession. Inspiration is a cruel bitch.
And yet again he cast a spell on me. Tonight, with his writings, yesterday was his naked honesty.
Charles Bukowski, often to the world – Bukowski the drinker, Bukowski the womanizer, Bukowski the belligerent, Bukowski the savage. For me, Bukowski the lasting influence on modern literature.
My eyes ran through my biased book rack. An entire row was dedicated to Charles’s books and his writings. Ham on Rye. The Last Night of the Earth Poems. Notes of a Dirty Old Man. Women. Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame. Post Office. Pulp. Hot Water Music.
“Hot Water Music. Yes!”, my lips mumble as I pull it out of the rack. I immerse myself in the pages. The themes are his usual: drinking, gambling, women, and writing. But here, Bukowski is truly at his best, with wit and cynicism aplenty.
Give me a sip of Bukowski every day, and I will forget how wine tastes like.
An unfiltered unadulterated writer inspires another writer to become one. He made an anti-hero and a legendary drunkard look cool in novels. Gives the writer the power to look at the dark sides as well as the bright. I invent and reinvent myself. Break-free from the clutches of mediocrity. Become self-reflexive of my own work.
At the crack of the dawn, sunrays peep through window across the floor of my bedroom. My scribbled notes finally made sense. My fingers are numb. The romance is evident on the floors. My pen had found its liberating canopy to make love with.
“In the morning it was morning and I was still alive.
Maybe I’ll write a novel, I thought.
And then I did.”