I have written five books.
The coffee machine has been present for all of them.
This feels worth acknowledging.
Writers receive most of the credit for books.
Occasionally editors.
Characters, if they become popular enough, begin behaving as if they wrote the story themselves.
Nobody mentions the appliances.
This seems unfair.
My coffee machine has witnessed the entire process.
The early mornings when everything made sense.
The late evenings when nothing did.
The suspicious period after midnight when every sentence appears either brilliant or completely unnecessary.
There is no middle ground after midnight.
The machine never offered advice.
I appreciate this.
Advice is dangerous during unfinished work.
People mean well.
They ask sensible questions.
Have you considered making it shorter?
Have you considered making it happier?
Have you considered explaining what is happening?
The coffee machine asked nothing.
It simply made coffee.
This is an underrated quality in a creative partner.
Five books require a surprising amount of repetition.
Open the document.
Read yesterday’s work.
Change something.
Write.
Stop.
Walk away.
Return.
Change the thing back.
Make coffee.
There were days when I moved quickly.
Entire chapters seemed to know where they were going.
Other days, I spent three hours with a conversation between two people who had apparently decided to become strangers overnight.
The coffee remained consistent.
Mostly.
There was an incident involving descaling.
We do not discuss it.
At some point during the fourth book, I realised the machine had become part of the rhythm.
Not inspiration.
I distrust anything that claims responsibility for inspiration.
Rhythm is more useful.
The small repeated actions that tell the mind:
We are doing this again.
The same cup.
The same chair.
The same quiet mechanical sound from the kitchen.
Then the page.
Perhaps this is why finishing the fifth book felt strange.
I closed the document.
Sat for a moment.
Then went to make coffee.
The machine started as usual.
It had no interest in milestones.
No congratulations.
No questions about what came next.
Just coffee.
I respect that.
There is another notebook on the desk now.
The coffee machine has noticed.
It is saying nothing.
Professional to the end.
— D. Vaen