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Forget about that other writing contest

This is the one that is going to put you on the map. The one that will bring out the real Great American Novel. The one that will separate those of us what can hold our liquor and type in the footsteps of our patron saint, the late Hunter S. Thompson – with a red laptop under one arm and a fifth of Wild Turkey under the other.

This, folks, is AlcoWriMo. Only longer.

The idea is from my buddy Ken, who today said I should write the next Great American Novel in my free time, as he put it, “I’d love to see some thousand-page monster entitled BABOONS RIDING MY DICK FOREVER in bookstores.”

So. Get out your old fashioned glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of bourbon, all arranged counterclockwise from your keyboard. Put four ice cubes in the glass, pour on just enough bourbon to make them float, take a sip & start writing.

It’s about time we brought back the sordid, alcohol-soaked underbelly of writing. How could Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, Truman Capote, Edgar Poe, Stephen Crane, Theodore Roethke, Hermen Melville, Delmore Schwartz, Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulker, Jack London, O. Henry, Sinclair Lewis, George Sterling, Maxwell Bodenheim, Sherwood Anderson, Hart Crane, Dylan Thomas, Joaquin Miller, Eugene O’Neill, Malcolm Lowry, Jack Kerouac & our patron saint, Hunter S. Thompson, be wrong?