Smithson's Writing Process {Story Fragment}

Smithson held himself closely to a writing ritual. His workdays always consisted of the same steps, though he let himself vary somewhat on the details. For example, first he prepared himself a beverage. Perhaps water, perhaps tea, perhaps coffee, perhaps a can of root beer or, on rare and adventurous occasions, perhaps a mug of his most recent batch of kefir mead. Drink in hand, he would enter his study. It was a beautiful room, all full of dark hardwoods and books and fun little toys and gizmos scattered about. He had purchased most of the items himself, though some had been sent to him by friends or fans, and he had even made a couple of them personally. Many of them were clockwork gadgets of some sort, and the overall effect was very reminiscent of something from the Victorian era, when the world was just beginning to discover the wonderful, crazy, ridiculously dangerous things it could do with steam. He would pause a moment to survey the room, relishing the glow of the light off of the wood and the smell of the books, before crossing to his desk and lowering himself into his chair. He would place his beverage on the clay coaster his daughter had made for him and consider for the umpteenth time whether there was a way to consult her, without hurting her feelings, about whether she had deliberately constructed it to look as though he had just crushed some large insect with his glass or if that part was just a Rorschach coincidence. If the former, he would wonder, what did that say about his daughter's mind? If the latter, what did it say about his own? He would then shake his head and, if he had prepared himself a hot beverage, set a little Stirling engine on top. It was a beautiful engine, all brass and crystal and shining steel, and after he put it in motion it would let him know by its slowing that his drink had cooled enough for him to consume it.

( That having been done, he would turn on The Machine. )

To be continued?