Why I will never be great

For some bizarre reason that could probably keep a phsychoanalyst busy for years, I have this picture in my head of the successful writer. Probably be in the Stephen King mode...guy has an overflowing ashtray, a lit cig in one hand, empty bottles of beer scattered on the floor on the other side, a half-empty bottle on his desk, a dusky haze of cigarette smoke creating a cloud that gives the room a certain mood, staring at a computer screen or typewriter, hunched over leaning on one arm as he pounds away at the keys putting out his next masterpiece. That is why I can't be as good a writer as possible. Since I don't smoke, I miss that portion. Since I don't drink, I can't have the alcohol fueled runs of depression that allow the tortured, morbid looks at humanity that change "readable" novels to good, good novels to great, and great novels to classic. Would a Tale of Two Cities be read today if not for the misery inherent? Even the writing of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers is at best choppy and flawed. Yet they are considered great, classic writing...and it is, despite the flaws, the illogical, impossible sequences, the jarring cuts...the stories are so good and the involvement in human emotion so good that they remain worth reading. So without the cigarette and alcohol surges into the depths of human despair you have me. I sit there hunched over, Cheetoh in one hand, Coca Cola in the other, a dusky haze creating a mood and created by too many incense sticks going at once, pounding out not quite masterpieces. How do the approaches affect us? Well, let's take a look at a sample from each author. First, the smoking, drinking, whining genius:
Thunder rattled the shutters as bitter, driving rain lashed against the window panes. Morgan's gaze went from the rivulets of blood staining the oak hardwood floors to wander glumly over the dirt covering the uncompleted lawn and brooded over his problem. To be sure, killing Larissa had been done in the heat of the moment and came with a certain regret, yet it had its advantages as well. The storm would cover the sound the struggle had made and the condition of the yard would make hiding the body easy. Somehow he would have to deal with Inspector T. Higgins but it would be worth it. The fortune was his and his alone now. He only had to make sure of his steps to keep it.
Now, see what I mean? the weather sets the rain, the mood of the piece; you are drawn into it, you want to know more. The raw human emotion tells you this is going to be good. Now let's look at the same piece written by Cheetos and Coca Cola.
Tom listened to the breeze banging the loose shutter open and closed. Someday he really ought to fix it. He looked at the blood dripping from his finger and wondered how he could have been stupid enough to catch it in the shovel when he was turning over the sod in the front lawn. He heard a step on the stair and grimaced. That would be Shelly. He wished he could figure out how to get at the money without putting up with her but knew he could never pull it off. He sighed. Looked like it was time to go do the dishes.

Now, which of these efforts are you going to read further? Which of them did you even finish? I din't even finish the second piece of crap...and I wrote it. Okay, so I wrote the first one too...but I had to go into someone else's head to do it. So maybe I should stop shaving and sleeping so I get that unclean look with the tired eyes, start smoking and drinking and become famous. As Hunter S. Thompson allegedly said, "I hate to recommend drugs and alcohol to anyone, but it worked for me."