When I'm on a really serious writing deadline, I tend to indulge my most shameful eating habits.
I remember being broke once during my sophomore year, but not caring much because I was thrilled at having been given permission to write a play for my Ethics class. I subsisted that weekend on nothing but Sprite and Luden's cherry cough drops.
While writing my senior year thesis, I baked Jiffy Mix cornmeal in a soup pot (we didn't have any muffin tins), and lived off that and a tub of yogurt for a few days.
Blech. At least I was happy with how the thesis turned out.
In graduate school, I got a little healthier. Emphasis on a
little. In my first year, I would sometimes cook up half a bag of frozen peas and carrots, drown them in salt, and eat them in front of my computer.
On writing binges as a 25-year-old, I often ate cereal for dinner. Or frozen pizza. Or a bag of microwaved popcorn.
Once, during a particularly taxing all-nighter, I left my apartment at 3 a.m. and walked next door to the SuperAmerica (the modestly named Minnesota convenience store) just to buy a Dr. Pepper large enough to keep me going until morning.
My professor loved that paper. Unfortunately, my body felt as if it had surrendered two years of life while writing it. But did I learn my lesson? NO. I don't—or, rather,
can't—pull all-nighters anymore, but I do tend to work into the wee hours...
...and when the stress accompanying a writing task is horrible, or the deadline unbearably tight, I chew gum. Not sensible sugarless gum, or some restrained and dignified gum, like Trident. No. I must have Bazooka bubblegum, which is arguably the most disgusting gum there is. I will chew it only if no one can see me. When I hear Adam's footsteps on the stairs, I snatch up the wrappers and stuff them in the trashcan. Or in my briefcase. Or up my sleeves if necessary. Then I greet him with the sugar-addled smile of an addict.
"How's the writing coming?" Adam willl ask, nose twitching at the scent of my Bazooka breath.
(Note to self: Bazooka is
not your friend. Chewing Bazooka speeds the composition process, but only until the sugar crash. Then you must curse yourself for your lack of judgment, typing grimly through the post-Bazooka hangover.)
I don't smoke. And I can't abide coffee. (Something about the smell.) Since the traditional crutches of the writer are closed off to me, I had to find my own, less romantic substitutes.
Like buckets of Arizona green iced tea. With ginseng.
And pretzels. Oh, great salty delightful Bavarian pretzels. Those are my favorite writing aids of all.
Wish I had some right now.
Back to it...
