Recently an editor I worked with called me a writer sipping coffee. He included himself in this delightful epithet, but somehow “editor sipping coffee” just doesn’t have the same ring. It lacks that connotation of clueless self-absorption and artistic egotism inherent in the phrase “writer sipping coffee.”
Though I confess I was at first hurt and slightly offended by this remark, I have wisely come to embrace the designation. It’s incredibly useful, you see.
When my husband asks me a question to which I don’t know the answer I can simply say, “How should I know? I’m just a writer sipping coffee.”
Or when I bungle a task that normal people could do with one hand tied behind their backs, I can shrug and give a faux laugh and say, “Well, that’s what comes of being a writer sipping coffee!”
Or when I forget to do something really important, I can tell my husband or my friend or whoever, “Darling, what do you expect? I’m just a writer sipping coffee.”
Of course, it does backfire on occasion. I just got another work-for-hire gig: a 2000-word review of four books (totaling 1350 pages) and another 3000-word essay. I’m getting paid a whopping $350. When I laughingly told a friend this, he said, “Wow. Must be nice to get paid that much!”
I just stared at him. Clearly, the writer sipping coffee stereotype is firmly etched in his imagination, and it cloaks me completely. I may as well get used to it.
I’ve decided that, to complete the picture of writerly bliss, I need a cigarette in my right hand. The coffee’s in my left. The open laptop is in front of me on the lacquered table of the coffeehouse. I take a long drag on the cigarette and slowly exhale as I stare fixedly into space. Then I take a sip of my latte (because this is Seattle, after all; I couldn’t possibly drink plebian drip).
Another drag on my cigarette. Still staring at nothing. Another sip of coffee, until inspiration strikes, and I type fast and furiously, whipping out my 5000 words of brilliant, perfect prose in half an hour.
Ah, the life of a writer sipping coffee.
The idea of you smoking cracks me up! And the coffee too – but I suppose writer-sipping-tea just doesn’t have that same ring to it….
The thought of you smoking….anti-Kimberlee from an alternative universe!
I think there is another writer stereo-type as well: that of the tragic artist who bleeds for every word, whose obsession with writing is expressed in sleepless nights, 2-pack a day habit, and a fifth of whatever poison dulls the pain and nurtures the muse. I am imagining the character of Christian in Moulin Rouge, hollow-eyed in front of his typewriter, strung out on heartache and absinthe. If that is the opposite of “writer-sipping-coffee,” then bring on the lattes and cafe! (And considering that the woman who is now wealthier than the Queen of England wrote her novels-that-shall-not-be-named in said cafes, no doubt drinking lots of coffee–possibly tea, I concede, one cannot demean the potential results of said sipping.)
I think, at root, the problem is that a balanced writing life (as opposed to the tragic-artist-compulsion) looks different from the frenetic, multi-tasking, productivity model that our culture embodies. I remember reading Donald Hall’s book on writing and was so taken with the way he arranged his day in order to practice his craft of poetry. But even as I marveled, I felt a bit bitter: how nice for him that he can devote such unhurried time and attention to writing. And then I realized I would never think that way about a lawyer, banker, or doctor pursuing their profession. Are not writers similarly called to make use of their skills and cultivate them diligently? If that means sipping coffee (tea in my case…oh, look, there is yummy cup right here next to me), then so be it. A writer-sipping-coffee, as long as they are writing, is still a writer.
First, of all, are you right-handed? If you are, then the cigarette goes in your left hand. That is, it would if you were some mere hack writer. But since you are a dedicated writer, that cigarette NEVER leaves your mouth; it dangles at an insouciant angle from your lip, except when you take a greedy, powerful drag–then, for one brief instant, it stands at attention at the corner of your mouth, dropping ash into your stale coffee as the ember glows as red-hot as your passion for the written word.
(On a side note, I see you smoking Bidis, rather than plain old cigarettes. The smell of eucalyptus suits you.)
after reading matt’s comment, i am sooo ready to start smoking again. ahhh, that greedy powerful drag… how i miss you.