This is my life. The stench of stale beer and urine nearly knocked me on my ass, as I took out the trash to the alley behind my bar. My bar served as the watering hole for some of the best writers. There is no telling who you might see here. It was nothing for a Pulitzer winner to be tucked in a dark corner nursing a pint. I was told once; they come here because they can be normal people, no one hounding them for autographs or any of usual things that happen when they frequent other bars. This made me happy to hear, because it was a goal I had in mind when I bought the place ten years ago. As a writer I know what it’s like to be hounded by a fan or need a break from my own mind. The Double Down, DD’s as many called it, was the spot the writer-types hung out. It was a place to come to get over the “the block” or drink enough until you forgot all about it. DD’s was also was the spot to come to after the “The Draft”
Other than being published, the draft was the most important event in the writing community. It was held once a year, it was the event where the most talented writers were paired with their muse in hopes to create the greatest literary offerings. Yes I know, that most you think “muses” are fictional creatures or figment of writer’s imagination, but I here to tell you they are very real. The draft was by invitation only. So I got my invitation in 1969. I was basically an unknown with a whole lot of lightning and very little thunder. I got a few looks from some of the muses; none of them were willing to take the chance on me. So I figured with some old fashioned hard work and a bit of luck I’d picked up in one of the following drafts.
However, I found out, while drowning my sorrows, you only get one shot in a lifetime. If you were passed over, it’s time to start work at the mill or die from a paper cut at some insurance company, very disappointing news. I was pathetic and shattered, when a drink slid my way with a note.