The role of psychedelics in one writer’s life

Seth Lorinczi joins Cave of the Heart and answers 6 questions about self-trust

Welcome to Cave of the Heart, a weekly series where writers trust-fall into the depths of inner-knowing, creativity, and the craft of writing. Are you ready to get curious about the cultivation of self-trust, give a warm nod to our child selves, and celebrate inspiration in all forms? Come with us into the cave of the heart.

Seth Lorinczi

is a Portland-based writer who focuses on psychedelics, music, and culture. His writing appears in The Guardian, DoubleBlind, Narratively (forthcoming), Portland Monthly, the San Francisco Chronicle and Portland Oregonian, as well as entries in anthologies by Hozac Books and Akashic Books and other publications. Seth's debut book—Death Trip: A Post-Holocaust Psychedelic Memoir—will be published in May, 2024 by Spiral Collective Press.

In today’s interview, Seth explores …

• learning self-trust from straightedge punk musician Ian MacKaye

• the condition of “genius”

• when to ignore your audience

• the role psychedelics has played in his writing life

… and more. Let’s get started!

Amanda: Before we start, can you describe the setting where you’re answering these questions?

Seth: A quiet Sunday. A bad back has me bedbound, but it’s not awful. The dog is at my feet, my daughter humming in the next room. My life could be far, far worse.

Beginnings

Amanda: Were you a chatterbox as a child, or were you quiet or something else entirely? When you spoke up or expressed a preference, what sort of response did you get?

Seth: I always saw myself as quiet, inward, contained. But there was also a sharp break in my childhood: My mother died suddenly when I was four and a half. And so I suspect I wasn’t one of the children you describe, but both.

A few years ago, a long-lost relative gifted me a DVD with the family 8mm film strips. What surprised me most was seeing myself before my mother’s death: I’m happy, exuberant, excitable. It was painful to witness, but also a gift: It reminded me that we are all mutable, that the story is never “over.”

Influences

Amanda: Who in your life has shown the most self-trust, authenticity, and inner-knowing? How did they embody it? 

Seth: I had the great fortune to grow up in the punk scene in Washington, D.C. in the ‘80s and ‘90s. And one of the key figures in that scene is a man named Ian MacKaye.

Many people find Ian divisive—he played a huge role in creating the straightedge movement, which eschews alcohol, drugs, and other intoxicants (and which many find harsh and puritanical)—but he was (and remains) a living exemplar of a person with an unshakeable moral compass and a commitment to ethical behavior. I doubt he’d say he’s endowed with any special musical talent, but he’s spent the last 45 or so years making indelible art with no regard whatsoever for commercial or critical potential. He knows what he wants to do, and then he does it. I really don’t think it’s any more complicated than that.

Creative Spark

Amanda: What do you think about the concept of a “creative spark”? Is it something we all have access to?

Seth: When I was just beginning to grasp that I might have a story to tell, my wife and I took a long drive, and she put on the audiobook version of

Elizabeth Gilbert

’s “Big Magic.”

The section that’s by far had the most impact on me is the one in which she talks about the concept of “genius” in its original (and most generous) sense. Not as something one owns (typically a “white male genius,” judging from the last few thousand years) but as a condition, a state of grace we neither possess nor control. It’s so beautifully democratic and so true to my own experience (see earlier: the punk scene, and artists who weren’t traditionally trained or considered “skilled” in the accepted sense).

Instead, Gilbert suggests that our real work is to invite this condition: To set the stage, ask for a mere few moments of inspiration, and make offerings to this fleeting fugue state. I’m hard put to quantify or describe it; the closest I can come is to say there are these moments when everything else drops away and I have a flicker of tunnel vision. Almost literally, like I’m looking down a long, dark corridor towards some distant end point. And that’s when what I really want to say drops into place.

The further I go into writing—and the better I understand that I possess no special talent of my own, other than committing to tell the truth—the deeper is my gratitude for this way of framing the phenomenon of inspiration.

Writing Process

Amanda: Were there any habits or beliefs that you had to let go of in order to more deeply trust your writing process?

Seth: I had to learn how to ignore the concept of “the audience.” That’s difficult: I want to be seen. I want reflections from the world. I want to know that I’m having some sort of impact. And yet every single time I think “THIS will get people talking!” or “THIS is the kind of post that will attract some attention!” I know I’m on the wrong track. 

I learned this long ago, though I sometimes forget it. Back—yet again—to the punk scene: When I was a musician, I grew intoxicated by the act of performing, by feeling the waves of energy and excitement coming back at me from an audience. But as soon as I tried to write “to” that audience, the art got weaker. It lost its spark. I demanded that it “do” something for me, instead of my serving it.

Stephen King is somewhat of a know-it-all, but I do love something he shares in “On Writing:” “Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.” In other words: When you begin a draft, push any thought of a reader away. There’s plenty of time to consider their wants and needs later. It has to be for you first and foremost.

Resourcing

Amanda: What’s one surprising or unlikely resource that you turn to again and again to bolster your writing life?

Seth: I’m going to provide an answer that will bother some readers: Psychedelics. 

My forthcoming book is subtitled “A Psychedelic Memoir” and that’s no lie. Psychedelics played a huge role in its creation, most of all by helping me poke my head above the clouds and glimpse that the stories I’d told about myself–who I was, what I was allowed to do or be in this world–were just that: stories. And that meant they could be changed.

In terms of writing, psychedelics have done much the same thing for me: Inserting a gentle (or sometimes not-so-gentle) prybar between me and the subtext, helping me see where I’m holding back or, worse, demanding a specific emotional response from readers. Because I’m so prone to getting stuck in the realm of the cerebral, they can have the effect of uncoupling me a bit, seeing what’s working and what’s not from a slightly different perspective. For what it’s worth, I generally find using psychedelics more useful in the editing rather than in the generative stage.

What does this look like in practice? Without any doubt, the most impactful thing is having these “big experiences” (I’m talking about a full-blown psychedelic journey, of any kind) and then bringing them back to my writing desk in the days that follow. We are meaning-makers, and I find that constructing a narrative—where did I go? What was I shown there, and how do I integrate it into my life?—is one of the most thrilling (and challenging) aspects of the journey.

On a micro level, I find that editing under the influence of a little cannabis is enormously helpful. I instantly see what isn’t working: what’s extraneous, misplaced, or otherwise needed (and yes: I keep a “safety copy” just in case!).

I have a feeling some readers will scoff at this, for good reason. There’s a danger embedded in here: The belief that an external input is necessary to gain “perspective” or “inspiration” or any other fill-in-the-blank. But I’d argue that anything that helps us shift our perspective and get a bit of distance—whether it’s psychedelics or meditation or exercise or prayer—is a gift, if used with caution and intent. It’s one I’m grateful for, and it hasn’t steered me wrong.

Bonus round: Neurodiversity 

Amanda: After being diagnosed neurodiverse (self-diagnosed counts!) did you have to rebuild trust in yourself in any way? What did that look like?

Seth: Ah, thanks for asking this. I’ve never received an “official” diagnosis, though several have been suggested by various therapists or healers. I appreciate your referencing “trust,” that’s an unusual framing but it hits home.

At times, I find it’s incredibly easy to get flooded—it’s like the circuit breakers all slip off and I don’t know what to do next. In these moments, I lose faith in myself. It’s like I don’t know the next right step. 

When this happens, I have to remind myself that I don’t have to believe my thoughts. So simple, startling, and true (and incidentally, another gift of psychedelics). That for whatever reason, I’m predisposed by wiring or experience or something unnameable towards this kind of paralysis. That I’ve felt it before, that it has passed in due course, and that I’ll feel it again. It’s a small adjustment, but it helps me ground and then move forward when the path is unclear.

Now you

Who modeled self-trust for you?

Do you ever feel drawn to write “to” your audience? Does it help or hurt your art?

How do you get that necessary shift in perspective, “whether it’s psychedelics or meditation or exercise or prayer”?