(On a side note, I see you smoking Bidis, rather than plain old cigarettes. The smell of eucalyptus suits you.)

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.