I’ve been struggling over this scene in my novel where Bjäkk and Ben are talking science in the hot pott. Tonight, inspired by the Edinburgh connection to this week last year, and with memories of writing pages and pages of my novel in my leather bound book in the Ecco Vino wine bar I poured myself a glass of Glenfydich single malt whisky and settle down to write.
Now I don’t know what it is about whisky, but the first sip (and only ever the first) causes me do a very satisfying, fast shake of the head. Anyway, no sooner has the taste seeped into my body, but the words are pouring out. What was once a scene that stood defiantly in my way, opens up into new realms of imagination.
Now, I am far from an alchoholic, but even so, I do wonder what kind of properties alchohol has as regards writing. Certainly many writers turn to drink and become alchoholics. I thought that this was chance, that this was because of the kind of people they were, or other problematic things in their lives, and indeed in part it probably is that, but maybe there is also some sort of scientific link between alcohol and the imagination.
It’s probably possible to get a research grant to look into this…