Sometimes I experience delusions of grandeur. The psychologists call this “positive fantasy.” I like to also call it “Destined for Greatness” where I think about something to such a degree that it seems real before any of the actual work is complete. This used to happen to me in the early days when I first walked the streets of New York, after I got in to a fucking amazing grad school with a partial scholarship. Oh the books I would write! The ideas flooded my head as I strolled down Broadway like old Leopold Bloom himself. A modern day Ulysses type tale which would take place in just one day. Follow me as I went through the city from place to place. A surge of creativity and massive delusion.

And of course, grim reality sets in. You’ve got to pay the bills somehow. I ended up, once again, in another goddam restaurant. This one was right across the street from the 92nd Street YMCA where all sorts of celebrities and writers would come in and eat after they spoke in the auditorium. I often asked myself, how were they all so different from me? Well, younger self, at the time, you didn’t write all that much. You read a lot and finished your assignments but didn’t have a regular, daily writing schedule. Yes, you, I, we, changed all of that by starting to write everyday in 2020, during the pandemic. Yup, exactly 10 years after grad school. Talk about delusions. When I had the actual opportunity, I squandered it. Now, it’s all I want to do and I don’t have the time. Life is funny.

I’m ruminating about this because I just received a really nice easy let down from a potential publisher for my cocktail book, The Seasonal Bar: Recipes and Stories. I sat there for a few minutes staring at the email before opening it and could sense the impending doom before I even went in.

When you’re an artist to be or even a paid professional, there’s a delicate balance between narcissism and neurosis always vying for attention. You have to believe your stuff is good enough for everyone to want to read but also be enough of a self critic to reign yourself in if need be. If it goes too far one way and not the other, you’re screwed. The best example of this is the movie The Room, often described as the worst movie ever. The lead actor and writer, Tommy Wiseau, seemed to have no sense of what he was doing and not much talent but still went out on a limb and made a movie.

I don’t know. On the one hand, the movie is embarrassingly bad, but on the other, it became a massive success and cult classic because of this lack of self awareness. It became so famous for this, that a movie, The Disaster Artist, was made about it. Bad example.

Who the hell knows? With writing, it’s different. If the words suck, they suck. Every rejection is a punch to the groin that stings for longer than it should. The self doubt leeches in. The desire fades but the ambition to quit grows. Yet another teeter totter in the self confidence game. Maybe I’ll just bartend until I’m old enough to collect social security. Oh yes, my friends, the self loathing is strong right now.

Not sure quite yet if this one will go on the menu. It’s a Cherry Garcia in cocktail form. It’s not sweet, but I think it reads that way and people may perceive it to be when they see it on the menu due to the ingredients and the name. Shit, maybe I’ll just call it something else and be on my way.

Sherry Garcia

2 oz. Rye Whiskey (preferably bonded)

.5 oz. Fresh Lemon Juice

.5 oz. Whey Syrup

.5 oz. Manzanilla Sherry

.25 oz. Cherry Jam

.25 oz. Creme de Cacao

2 Dashes Lee’s Salted Chocolate Bitters

Shake, strain into a rocks glass with a BFR, garnish with a pickled cherry and a dusting of nutmeg or chocolate or nothing at all. I haven’t decided which.