But what if we were both full-time writers? What would that even be like?

I imagine dissecting a metaphor over breakfast. We talk about what we’re working on today while we do the dishes. I have to write a fight scene, I say. I’ll put the boss fight station on Pandora, you say. And then we play “which mug should I use today” for the first round of coffee.

Our office is big and bright, sheer curtains in the windows. Identical desks sit side by side, but it’s obvious which one belongs to whom. Mine is stacked with reference books and lined with pots of pens and highlighters. Yours is piled with tattered notebooks and garnished with the coffee mug from your last-minute inspiration before you fell into bed at 3 a.m.

The sunlight in the window flickers with the clouds as we write. Sometimes, you look up and start to ask me something, but as you phrase the question, you realize the answer. I’m used to this, so I just smile at my laptop. Sometimes, I look up and ask for help with a metaphor. Pandora fills the silences in between.

I get hungry first today. I come back with apples and cheese and read over what I’ve written so far. You pretend to steal some of my snack, but I brought enough for both of us. You read me a paragraph of your story because you want to know if it’s clear even though I don’t get all the references.

Once the sun sets, we begin to wind down. We discuss how our writing went over dinner, because talking it through helps us figure out what we need to do tomorrow. After we watch a black and white movie, it’s bedtime, but we get to do it all again tomorrow.


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