My own noisy and fragmented writing life has me idolizing that quaint, hermit-like picture of writers. When I read novels, I imagine the men and women who wrote them. They are of varying age and are clad in thick, wool sweaters. They are always thin, wasting away as they drink mug after mug of tea, or maybe coffee, and move a pen gracefully across a page or fingers hurriedly over a keyboard. Their worlds are cold and gray, but peaceful.

This isn’t how it happens for any of us, but a chilly, rainy afternoon like this finds me searching out a wool sweater, a mug full of tea, and a quiet corner where I can spill my imaginings onto a page. Now if only I can get the kids on board with this idea.