On the Matter of Writing, and the Proper Encouragement Thereof

Addressed Affectionately to My Mermaid Darlings By a Lady Who Prefers Ink, Tea, and a Certain Degree of Order

My dearest Mermaid darlings,
It has long been my private conviction—though I confess I have not always been bold enough to speak it aloud—that writing is far less an act of exertion than one of arrangement.

The words themselves, I assure you, are generally quite willing to present themselves. It is merely the manner of their invitation that determines whether they arrive with elegance or decline the engagement entirely.

Thus, before I permit myself to write, I must first attend—most dutifully—to the table.
Of Tea, Refreshment, and Small Deceptions
There is, without exception, a pot of tea.

To attempt writing without it would be an act of reckless imprudence and would almost certainly produce thoughts of a most inferior disposition. Tea steadies the nerves, clears the mind, and gently assures the spirit that it is not required to labour without companionship.

Alongside it, there may appear a glass of sparkling refreshment—a thoroughly modern indulgence—which, if it insists upon attendance, is treated with the utmost discretion. I decant it, disguise it, or place it just beyond polite notice, lest it disturb the gravity of the scene.

One must never allow convenience to outshine intention, my darlings—no matter how effervescent.

Of Sweet Things, Which Are Entirely Necessary
A modest plate of confections is not an extravagance, but a kindness—one I heartily recommend.

A scone, a biscuit, or something gently sugared does far more than appease the appetite; it improves the temper. I have observed, through long and careful study, that prose proceeds with remarkable civility when the writer has granted herself a small pleasure in advance.
One cannot help but marvel at how much patience a little jam procures.

Of Dress Suitable to Thought
I write neither in finery nor in discomfort.
Soft garments are required—those that make no demands upon the body and thus leave the mind at liberty to wander, explore, and occasionally drift like the tide. Only a sleeve or cuff ever enters view, for it would be quite improper to distract one’s thoughts with too much evidence of ease.

The object, my Mermaid darlings, is comfort, never exhibition.

Of Paper, Which Must Always Come First
I do not begin upon a machine.
Every sentence is first committed to paper, written by hand in one of the many notebooks that have gathered around me over the years—some orderly, others enthusiastic to the point of chaos.

Ink, I find, possesses a civilising influence upon thought.

It slows the mind just enough to discourage nonsense.

Only after this first acquaintance do I allow the words to make their way to the computer, where I gently refine them—never scold them—with the assistance of modern conveniences that need not be acknowledged aloud.

Of Sound, and the Proper Degree Thereof
I do not write in silence, though I come very near it.

There is often a low, obliging hush—the suggestion of rain, wind, or distant movement—which asks nothing of the listener and interferes with nothing at all. It resembles the quiet of a house content with itself, or the sea when it has resolved to be agreeable.

The mind, like a guest, prefers neither neglect nor excessive entertainment.

Of the Commonplace Book and Other Companions
Upon the table rests my commonplace book, in which I have long collected observations, sayings, and fragments of wisdom that appeared far too sensible to be entrusted to memory alone.
Nearby are the cabinet cards.

For each character I write, I select a face—printed, framed, and placed where it may observe me in return. It is remarkable how much better one behaves upon the page when one feels faintly accountable to the subject.

A character, like a lady, ought not be imagined at a distance. She must be known.

Of Dictionaries, Definitions, and the Consultation of Elders
There are books upon my table whose sole purpose is to explain words to themselves.

Dictionaries, phrase books, volumes of expressions long in use and not yet worn thin by time—I do not search these books so much as confer with them.

Words, much like people, reveal their finest qualities when approached with courtesy and respect.

Of the Pen, Which Is No Trifle
And lastly—the pen.
It must be a fountain pen, and it must contain sepia ink. On this matter, my Mermaid darlings, I am entirely resolute.

There are refills at the ready, for nothing interrupts a thought more thoroughly than an instrument that chooses, without warning, to lose its resolve.

Sepia belongs to memory.
It forgives haste and flatters reflection.

A Concluding Observation
When I arrange the table, pour the tea, fill the pen, and settle the room into something resembling peace, the writing requires no further persuasion.

The words arrive as they always have.
One must simply make it clear—to oneself, and to them—that they are most welcome.

I remain most affably yours, until my next enchanting swim,
Lady Raquel