First, I wrote a review of Kimberley Lynne's Dredging the Choptank over at The Lit Pub - go read it. Class issues and my own pirate heritage are discussed.
There's also the matter of this article from More Intelligent Life about writers who drink, and what happens when they sober up. It's an interesting read, especially if you're me and you think that the romantic notion of the frustrated drunken writer is goddamned stupid. To paraphrase Stephen King (a drunkard at one point himself), alcoholic writers don't drink to dull the pain of channeling life's miseries into art - they drink because they're drunks. Whether MIL intended to or not, they illustrate this key point rather nicely.
Maybe it's because I don't drink at all, but it's irritating when other artists claim that, because they're artists, they aren't supposed to be functional or have their shit together. Even when they're joking, it still comes off like an excuse to be irresponsible and blame it on the creative temperament. And since writers are understandably more verbal than other artists, they express their addictions louder and more often, as if being a shambling drunken mess makes one's work more authentic.
Anyway, no sense getting preachy - the article is far more coherent on these points than I am. Instead, I'll leave you with Henry Rollins advising against doing meth.