…and Why It Isn’t True
She gazed into the creamy coffee in her cup. For a fraction of a second the steam scalded her lip and the powerful woodsy scent filled her nose. Sighing, refreshed, she began to arrange the day’s notes. One by one, they covered the top of the old desk, hiding the polished grain where countless books and students’ hands had brushed it smooth. The beams of the setting sun that filtered through the red oak leaves outside her window wove between her typing fingers as she started an evening’s work.
That’s how writing happens, right?
That’s my writing fantasy. Actually, I’m sitting in my “garden level” bedroom. That means the basement. I can hear my daughter arguing about the likelihood of falling off the bed if she continues roughhousing on it. There is laundry on the floor. On my desk there is an empty fast food cola cup and a chipped coffee mug. I’ll fill the mug again with coffee after my daughter is gone to bed because I want to write, but it will not be as good as sex, as the excerpt above would imply. I don’t have a day’s worth of brilliant ideas doodled onto pretty scraps that I carry around with me.