If you enjoy Sir Ernest Hemingway, apologise I sincerely, he drank and wrote and writed and drankeded.
Many a writer in the past did this; was their drinking responsible for their output?
Maybe; but I inquire deeply, what are you, if no creative gold bursts out of thyn loins no matter what ‘chemical muse’ thee shamefully ingested?
Is it possible, can one be obsessed with becoming an artist (and the romanticism it bears) to such an extent that they can be completely and utterly blind to the fact that they are in reality such a blatantly regular Sock; art could not possibly spring forth from their bosom, Let alone any orifice?
Blinding and painful naval grazing.