It's a tricky business knowing the exact amount of coffee needed to fuel a writing session. Too little and I'm mushy and sluggish. Too much and I'm distracted by having to get up and pee every ten minutes. Plus, every time I get up, the cat steals my spot. Every.time.
My drug of choice is Cinnabon Classic Cinnamon Roll Coffee with a generic brand Caramel Chocolate creamer. It's more of a dessert than coffee, really. Some day, I'll put a dollop of whipped cream on top to see if it's as good as I imagine. Maybe a dusting of cinnamon too. A reward for sticking with the messy task of putting thoughts to paper. Whether my own or those of some poor slob from my imaginings being tortured for my and my readers' cheap thrills. My small attempt at playing a god. Would their worlds be light or dark? Seedy or romantic? Will someone die? I hadn't yet decided. (Insert sinister laugh here.)
I dance with my muse, but I can't hear the tempo of the music. Fast or slow? I end up stepping on toes, so I stop. Take a break. Ignore the last apple fritter and grab a self-righteous banana instead. Remove cat from chair. Start again.
Still, the words won't match the vision. There's a vague, blurred idea that refuses to come into focus. The flickering light sputters out. Back to the kitchen. I eat the damn apple fritter, licking my fingers. No apologies. Remove cat from chair.
An hour later. Five sentences typed. Five sentences deleted. Coffee gone. The page remains blank. Naked, white, and rude. Oh well, there's always tomorrow. Finally, I give up my seat to the cat. She looks smug. Although with a cat, it's hard to be sure. Isn't that their default setting?