Distillation

DISTILLATION

Beer

Yesterday I read a book – well, actually, flipped through a book, reading some bits, skimming others, and skipping other sections entirely – about whisky distilling. Or, more accurately, moonshine-making, since it was teaching you how to make your own whisky at home. There was also some historical information about the prohibition era, and about the history of distilling, some song lyrics and quotes from people about moonshine, and a bunch of recipes for mixed drinks you can make with your hooch once it's done. It was interesting to look through, but I realized that I'll never do it myself.

Today I was thinking about writing and what it is, how it works, what it's good for, how you know when you're doing it right. At first I thought that the purpose was telling people something. That the process of journalling or free writing is about asking questions, expressing uncertainty, but that a finished product is about telling your readers something definite. I changed it slightly, when I realized a story composed entirely of questions was a perfectly adequate form for a story. So that would make it less about asking/telling, and more about pointing people in a particular direction.

And then I put those two things together to make a metaphor that I think is far more accurate: writing is about distilling life, to give people a taste of something concentrated, refined, more potent than the diluted, messy experience of life in general. Different types of writing have different levels of proof: a blog or essay is like a beer, a short story is like hard cider, and a poem is like a shot of whisky. Each in turn is more concentrated, more focused, and more likely to give you a strong buzz. Words as fluid intoxicants.

Cider

Imagine a man in overalls, bent over the spout of his whisky still, rubbing a dab of the liquid onto the back of his hand, and leaning close to nose out the aromas. His deliberate, swaying movements speak to too little sleep or perhaps too much of his own product.

Looking out my window, I seek inspiration from the sun-speckled leaves, the lazy looping flies, the fallen apples rotting on the ground. Are they more interesting, more compelling than the squawks of neighboring chickens, the loose threads of a spiderweb in the breeze, lawn chairs arranged in a casual circle?

I reach for the glass on the windowsill and take another small sip, rolling the flavors of smoke, caramel, and pungent alcohol over my tongue. I swallow, and the burn in my throat is followed by a looseness, a dropping away of all that is nonessential, to reveal the heart.

Whisky

The moonshiner's glassy eyes

The tooth marks on the writer's pencil

Agony distilled

Andrea Blumberg