In the thick of writing the so-called masterpiece, things happen. Small things to the observer, but they could be huge issues for the writer. Issues accorded a shallow burial. Or maybe they're just issues that remain on the surface while the writer pretends that they're invisible. The hide-and-seek game doesn't work. Sooner than later, the writer must confront them. And accept that the real world he lives in is a tad more real than the world of his novel.
What does the writer then do? He has no answers. The varied tools he has at his disposal - language, vocabulary, plot, situations, nuances of situations, the ethereal consciousness of his characters.... all these are incapable of helping him tackle the reality of his life. So what does he do? Maybe he drowns in his own sorrow. Or maybe, just maybe, he hopes that his favourite songs and tipples pull him out of his real-world situations. Heck, they might even offer him the breathing space that's required between the appearance of the problem and the solution.
Just a thought.