See, all non-writers have their own writer stereotypes, but there seem to be a few basic molds:
1) The pipe-smoking, pub-frequenting, Old-English-speaking chap with a library full of leather-bound first editions.
2) The cigarette-smoking, wine-drinking, slightly-sociopathic socialite who has as many lovers as works in progress.
3) The tea-drinking, cottage-dwelling, zany recluse, who writes out stories long-hand on yellow pads, staring into the crackling, cozy fire for inspiration, a lazy cat curled up by his or her feet.
I've been almost fitting into that third category for years now, with one, aching lack.
But thanks to my sister Natalie, who lent me her cat for a few weeks while they are visiting Connecticut, I can fully embrace the stereotype. Unfortunately my camera's batteries died, or I would share a picture with you...and I'm too much the zany recluse to go out and buy more batteries.