3 On Writing

3.1 The other day I drank so much that I had to vomit in the street. This happened in San Francisco's red light district, amongst the brothels and the seediest strip clubs. The area is called the tenderloin, apparently because policemen used to be paid more to work that beat and could therefore afford to bring home the choicest cuts of meat. It amuses me that an area of seedy strip clubs is called the tenderloin.

3.2 It might be thought surprising that, as a 30 year old graduate student of psychology, I am still capable of drinking until expurgation. To tell the truth, I was a little surprised myself, though I don't regret it. It's not something I like to do too often, but once in a while I think it's important. Also, I don't think you can fully claim to live in a city until you have left a little bit of yourself on its sidewalks; until you have marked your territory. And urinating on street corners is too easy. I'll leave that to dogs and tramps, both of which are plentiful here.

3.3 When I say vomit, I mean vomit. Not the polite behind-the-hand semi-cough which passes for vomiting amongst girls, and which amazes me. No, vomiting for me begins in the depths of my being. It is a cataclysmic internal event, a retching and a spewing, like the eruption of a volcano. The muscles of my thorax convulse and contract; I cannot breath. My eyelids close to prevent my eyeballs popping out. Finally the burning magma is ejected and stomach acid sears my nasal passageways like hot lava.



Afterwards my eyes are weepy and bloodshot. I wipe away the elastic strings of drool. The expectorated matter cools and hardens on the pavement. But these are wonderful moments; all is calm, all is peace. Gone are the discomfort, the dizziness and the saline saliva that heralded the event. There is a sense of great serenity, of unity with the universe. That is how to vomit.

3.4 For me writing novels is very much like vomiting; both spew things into existence.