So in Manchester, Tennessee, there’s a restaurant where you can get two beers for the price of one and a half-priced appetizer during happy hour, and that can make a pretty good dinner. Which has me thinking I’m just like Hemingway nursing two drinks and eating whatever’s cheapest in some Parisian cafe while he wrote. Only all he had for material was world war and shit like that, and I’ve got country and western music.
Benjamin Whitmer
Satan is Real
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Pike
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Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail!
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Yeah, but the question still comes down to whether you can crank out 10 pages of finished copy before lunch, on a bad hangover. That’s was Hemingway’s test of a serious writer, wasn’t it?
Shit, I can’t crank out 10 pages of finished copy in a day on a gram of crank.