The Magical Coffee Pot

A morning without coffee is like sleep.
~Author Unknown


I have a magical coffee pot. End of blog.

No wait, that’s not what I was going to say. Scratch that. Start over.

I have had conversations with my coffee pot in the past. I have posted images of its poor shattered soul. And I have shared it with friends and enemies alike. It’s quite possibly the most important appliance ever created. And mine is magical.

I drink coffee in the morning, at work, after work, all night while writing, and right before bed. It does absolutely nothing to wake me up or keep me awake, but I love the happy sexy creamers I find and it’s warm and toasty and it just works. Don’t judge me.

The one and only time the coffee works to wake me up is when it’s being magical. Or rather, when I would prefer it just be a damn coffee pot.

As a writer, I pay attention to my dreams. I’m lucky enough to have lots of them—and apparently more nightmares than certain hippies deem normal, but if I can use the material, so be it! I’ve gotten more than a few kernals from dreams, several scenes, and a great “ah-ha!” moment.

But lately, the coffee pot erases all memories of my dreams. My morning routine is pretty standard. I robotically spring from the bed as if it were on fire but my joints aren’t quite awake yet and grace has nothing to do with this movement. I sneak out of the bedroom, trying to make as little noise as possible because no amount of coffee can turn a nightowl into a morning person and hippies should be left to sleep as long as possible. Pause in the bathroom long enough to wipe any leftover mascara from my eyes—because if I don’t, I guarantee I will rub those evil little stinging flecks into my eyeballs and grind them into my brain within the next ten minutes. Manage to walk down the stairs with one eye open. Start sweet talking the coffee pot as soon as the kitchen is in sight. Now if there’s been a dream, I know it when my feet hit the floor, will be thinking of it at the bathroom mirror, and trying to decipher its meaning and/or importance on the way down the stairs. And then I grab a mug, pour the creamer in, and the second the coffee pot is in my hand *poof* dream gone.

This is frustrating, especially if the only thing I can remember is that it was important to what I’m working on and now I can’t remember it. It’s annoying when the hippie asks how I slept and I tell him I had a dream…and then my eyes glaze over trying to grab something I know damn well is long gone because I touched the coffee pot. But last night? Last night was the worst!

I’m starting a new novella, The Three Dollar Notebook. I have notes, names, a path, an ending. Everything is lined up nice and neat and ready for fingers on keyboard. Except the opening. Oh, I know the scene, but that exact moment, that first sentence, is important. It sets the theme and the mood and the path. And I dreamed the perfect opening three days ago… you know, right before I woke up and got coffee!

So I’ve spent three days glaring at the magical coffee pot trying to remember that perfect opening. I’ve thought about it in every free moment, and a couple not so free moments—I must admit I may have zoned out of a conversation or two lately, oops. And I finally gave up. I spent several hours just trying to create that perfect line while I was doing other things, making soup, fixing the graveyard, checking out the Harleys at the fairgrounds—because multitasking is sexy. And then I started the novella anyway. It’s a good opening. I like it. I may love it when I finish and go back and reread. Or I’ll change it then. But I’ve moved on. I’m over it. I’m off to the races on a story I know is going to come flying out in a matter of days.

And wouldn’t you know it…

This morning I remembered the line while wiping the mascara flakes off my eyes. I repeated it over and over like a mantra, out loud, as I walked down the stairs. I paused long enough to get a cup of coffee and…


Damn magical coffee pot.

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