I Was A Punk Before You Were A Punk

I Was A Punk Before You Were A Punk

Chris Walter, in the flesh.

My productivity and focus went way up, and instead of doing drugs, I wrote for 16 hours a day. Addicts don't do anything in moderation.

Chris Walter

Date Posted: 12/21/06

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Vancouver writer Chris Walter is well-known for his prolific work; with 11 books in eight years his stories range in characters from the squeegee kids of "Boozecan," to his own personal history as a punk and drug addict in a trilogy that starts with "I Was A Punk Before You Were A Punk" and ends with "I'm On The Guest List." Walter can often be spotted reading excerpts at his book launches/punk rock shows, his six-feet plus, heavily tattooed frame is an imposing figure and unlikely look for someone who spends the better part of each day in front of the computer crafting hilarious and poignant stories through his own publishing company, Gofuckyerself Press. Here he tells his story of how he journeyed through a long-time drug addiction to become a writer with an addiction to words.

This is going to sound very melodramatic, but I started writing because I thought I was going to die and I wanted to leave something behind. I'd OD'd on heroin twice in 1998, so I wrote Beer on the irregular paper that my girlfriend stole from work. I didn't have a typewriter or computer so I wrote it longhand and sent it to my mom in Winnipeg, and she typed it out and sent it back. Somehow, my girlfriend and I printed the thing and we fashioned it into a crude book with ring-coil binding. At first, the books were 81/2 X 11 on one side of paper because we didn't know how to put text on both sides of the page.

We were like cavemen carving tablets out of stone. I made the covers myself. They were so ugly. I remember selling my first copy to a kid at China Creek Skate Park. I'd given away and sold a few copies to friends, but that was my first actual sale. It was weird - an amazing feeling to have a stranger buy something I wrote. It's very addictive. For an addict like me there was no turning back.

My girlfriend bought me a hot laptop for a hundred dollars. The color was broken and everything was black and white, but I only needed the word processor. It was a big step up from sending the handwritten pages to my mom. I was writing when I could, but the laptop would be at the dope dealer's as collateral, and then I'd get it back and go on another binge. Then the dealer would get my laptop again. Things got worse. I found myself shooting dope in a hotel room on the Downtown Eastside with no place to live, homeless.