Chapter 1

           CharlesBukowskiwasanalcoholic,awomanizer,achronicgambler,alout,acheapskate,adeadbeat,andonhisworstdays,apoet. He’sprobablythelastpersononearthyouwouldeverlooktoforlifeadviceorexpecttoseeinanysortofself-helpbook. 

           Whichiswhyhe’stheperfectplacetostart. 

           Bukowskiwantedtobeawriter. Butfordecadeshisworkwasrejectedbyalmosteverymagazine,newspaper,journal,agent,andpublisherhesubmittedto. Hisworkwashorrible,theysaid. Crude. Disgusting. Depraved. Andasthestacksofrejectionslipspiledup,theweightofhisfailurespushedhimdeepintoanalcohol-fueleddepressionthatwouldfollowhimformostofhislife. 

           Bukowskihadadayjobasaletter-fileratapostoffice. Hegotpaidshitmoneyandspentmostofitonbooze. Hegambledawaytherestattheracetrack. Atnight,hewoulddrinkaloneandsometimeshammeroutpoetryonhisbeat-upoldtypewriter. Often,he’dwakeuponthefloor,havingpassedoutthenightbefore. 

           Thirtyyearswentbylikethis,mostofitameaninglessblurofalcohol,drugs,gambling,andprostitutes. Then,whenBukowskiwasfifty,afteralifetimeoffailureandself-loathing,aneditoratasmallindependentpublishinghousetookastrangeinterestinhim. Theeditorcouldn’tofferBukowskimuchmoneyormuchpromiseofsales. Buthehadaweirdaffectionforthedrunkloser,sohedecidedtotakeachanceonhim. ItwasthefirstrealshotBukowskihadevergotten,and,herealized,probablytheonlyonehewouldeverget.