I am sitting at a desk in Vermont, writing. I come here every summer. Always the same house, surrounded by the same objects. There’s my laptop, with the soft, almost ethereal glow of its backlit keys, and the satisfying click they make as I type. There’s my cup of coffee. I savor the pleasant weightiness of the mug, and the way it warms my hands on this, an unseasonably chilly summer day. I sense the gentle swoosh of liquid as I raise cup to mouth, touching its lip to mine and tasting the coffee, warm and pleasantly bitter.
This is like the first draft of a beginning creative writing course. "The gentle swoosh of liquid as I raise cup to mouth..."? Eesh.
