Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget - Sarah Hepola
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight. Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
I’m in Paris on a magazine assignment, which is exactly as great as it sounds. I eat dinner at a
restaurant so fancy I have to keep resisting the urge to drop my fork just to see how fast someone will
pick it up. I’m drinking cognac—the booze of kings and rap stars—and I love how the snifter sinks
between the crooks of my fingers, amber liquid sloshing up the sides as I move it in a figure eight.
Like swirling the ocean in the palm of my hand.
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on <strong>the</strong> picnic table out back drinking with <strong>the</strong> proofreaders and <strong>the</strong> guys from production. We played<br />
games of “Who Would You Ra<strong>the</strong>r?” sorting <strong>the</strong> entire staff in<strong>to</strong> people we would like <strong>to</strong> bang,<br />
careful <strong>to</strong> never mention each o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
I didn’t write much at first. I ran <strong>the</strong> listings section and contributed third-string <strong>the</strong>ater reviews<br />
with unnecessary adjectives. The young, hotshot music critic wrote with such wild metaphors,<br />
paragraphs like jazz riffs. I asked him once how he got so good, and he <strong>to</strong>ld me, “I did acid.” But he<br />
also had what every writer needs: his own voice.<br />
I did not. My writing was a kind of literary karaoke. I aped <strong>the</strong> formulas and phrasings of older<br />
critics whose work I admired. I sometimes borrowed friends’ opinions for <strong>the</strong>ater reviews, because I<br />
was certain <strong>the</strong>irs were more accurate than my own. I’d sit each week in <strong>the</strong> meeting, listening <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
lineup of cover s<strong>to</strong>ries, wanting that spotlight so badly. But what did I have <strong>to</strong> say?<br />
In college, I never read newspapers, which made it a tiny bit awkward <strong>to</strong> be working for one.<br />
What did people want from <strong>the</strong>ir news? The Chronicle offered two primary channels, criticism and<br />
reporting. But I had nei<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> deep knowledge nor <strong>the</strong> training for ei<strong>the</strong>r. My colleagues slung <strong>the</strong>ir<br />
authority around <strong>the</strong> room, while I became afraid <strong>to</strong> botch any answer. Black or refried: Which are<br />
<strong>the</strong> superior beans?<br />
As for my artistic tastes, I wasn’t sure about <strong>the</strong>m, ei<strong>the</strong>r. We had entered <strong>the</strong> Age of Irony. Low<br />
culture was high culture, and <strong>the</strong> difference between loving something and hating it was razor thin.<br />
People like me disguised our true feelings in layers of detachment, endless pop-culture references,<br />
sarcasm. Because no one can break your heart if <strong>the</strong>y don’t know it.<br />
I pulled down <strong>the</strong> Blade Runner poster and put up a picture of <strong>the</strong> Backstreet Boys, and I forced<br />
everyone on staff <strong>to</strong> vote on <strong>the</strong>ir favorite member.<br />
“I don’t fucking know,” <strong>the</strong> cranky edi<strong>to</strong>r-in-chief said when I s<strong>to</strong>pped him in <strong>the</strong> hallway. “The<br />
blond one, with <strong>the</strong> nice smile.”<br />
About nine months after coming <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> paper, I got my first big assignment. I went undercover <strong>to</strong><br />
high school prom. The mass shooting at Columbine had taken place a few months prior, leading <strong>to</strong> a<br />
glut of paranoid articles about “teens <strong>to</strong>day,” and my s<strong>to</strong>ry was <strong>the</strong> kind of goofy, first-person<br />
escapade almost guaranteed <strong>to</strong> wind up on <strong>the</strong> cover.<br />
There was one problem. I was so freaked out by <strong>the</strong> pressure I couldn’t write a word. I spent<br />
hours staring at a blinking cursor, typing words only <strong>to</strong> erase <strong>the</strong>m again. The night before <strong>the</strong> piece<br />
was due, desperate for any fix, I opened a bottle of wine. Fuck it. Maybe this will help.<br />
Before <strong>the</strong>n, I never drank while I was writing. I might have downed a few beers while I waited<br />
on page edits. But writing and drinking were two fundamentally opposing activities—like eating and<br />
swimming. Writing required hush and sharpness of vision. Drinking was roar and blur.<br />
The wine turned down <strong>the</strong> volume on my own self-doubt, which is what a blocked writer is<br />
battling: <strong>the</strong> bullying voices in her head telling her each thought is unoriginal, each word <strong>to</strong>o ordinary.<br />
Drug users talk about accessing a higher consciousness, a doorway <strong>to</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r dimension—but I just<br />
needed a giant fishhook <strong>to</strong> drag my inner critic out of <strong>the</strong> room.<br />
That night, I drank myself in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> writing zone. Words tumbled from my fingers like <strong>the</strong>y’d been<br />
waiting <strong>to</strong> get shaken loose. I couldn’t believe how well it worked. After <strong>the</strong> s<strong>to</strong>ry came out, staff<br />
members s<strong>to</strong>pped me in <strong>the</strong> hall <strong>to</strong> quote <strong>the</strong>ir favorite lines.<br />
So, of course, this became a common practice. A couple glasses <strong>to</strong> prime <strong>the</strong> pump. Sometimes, in<br />
<strong>the</strong> privacy of my funky little garage apartment, I would drink myself blind. I purposefully did this—