Though I met my goal to finish by , the new year marks seven years and counting since I published my second novel, Goddess of the Night , in late In his writing, as in his life, he is his own worst enemy. He self-sabotages every break Hollywood gives him, every relationship he forms, every chance he has at forgiveness.
In the show, Hank will go months, if not years between writing stints until inspiration bursts violently from his consciousness like rain from cumulonimbus clouds. These drug- and alcohol-infused creative thunderstorms last a couple days and nights, culminating in a polished draft of a literary fiction bestseller. History is filled with rumors of authors similarly pulling substance-aided all-nighters. Using cocaine, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote 60, words in six days. Ayn Rand fueled her creative spurts with Benzedrine.
Hunter S. Thompson used dextroamphetamine and, later in his career, cocaine. Missing from these stories of drugged-out literary luminaries is the hard work involved behind the scenes. Take it from an ADHD writer—amphetamines are no substitute for routine. Later in the Californication series, even freethinking, freewheeling Hank Moody tries to teach his daughter that libertine behavior does not make one a writer. He acknowledges the blood, sweat, and tears that stain every manuscript.
Everything else is a pose. With his novel stolen and his screenplay residuals spent, Hank takes a job at an all-girls private college. In On Writing , Stephen King discusses sequestering himself in his office with the door closed. His instructions to himself and to his family are that unless the house is burning down, he is not to be bothered. King also writes every day of the year except Christmas.
Then, he admits he is lying. He also writes on Christmas. To finish my latest novel, I had to invent my own writing routines —only to have them interrupted by life dozens of times. I had to work around day jobs and night jobs; depressive episodes , dermatomyositis , and multimillion-dollar proposal deadlines; dying friends and dying relationships; and worst of all, the pandemic—the antisocial shitstorm that made parasites of the masses and paralyzed my creativity for a year and a half.
