How to dress like a writer
It's all about the sweater.
Real writers don't wear t-shirts -- unless they're wearing the t-shirt they fell asleep in yesterday, beneath a bathrobe they put on this morning before they snuck downstairs to write before the kids wake up.
Real writers don't wear jackets -- unless they are doing a reading from their latest work at the bookstore of the local college, or unless they are paying someone to shoot a photo they hope and pray will someday grace the back of their "latest" work (that is, their only work).
No, it's all about the sweater. All-natural wool. Gotta be wool. Only wanna-bes wear polyester blends. Natural wool color, cable-knit, just tight enough in the shoulders to make you look like a Hemingway-esque large man, just baggy enough at the waist to hide the spare tire. Preferably with steam rising from a coffee mug with a muddy, primitive looking glaze. Or possibly smoke from a cigarette, but only if you're French.
So, imagine, glazing (er, I mean, gazing) out that window, with coffee and/or smoke curling around your all-natural cable-knit wool sweater and sunshine suffusing the room with so much warmth and delicate shadows that you feel like you're in a pharmaceutical commercial . . . do you think the pants matter? The socks? Get real.
The sweater.
Real writers don't wear t-shirts -- unless they're wearing the t-shirt they fell asleep in yesterday, beneath a bathrobe they put on this morning before they snuck downstairs to write before the kids wake up.
Real writers don't wear jackets -- unless they are doing a reading from their latest work at the bookstore of the local college, or unless they are paying someone to shoot a photo they hope and pray will someday grace the back of their "latest" work (that is, their only work).
No, it's all about the sweater. All-natural wool. Gotta be wool. Only wanna-bes wear polyester blends. Natural wool color, cable-knit, just tight enough in the shoulders to make you look like a Hemingway-esque large man, just baggy enough at the waist to hide the spare tire. Preferably with steam rising from a coffee mug with a muddy, primitive looking glaze. Or possibly smoke from a cigarette, but only if you're French.
So, imagine, glazing (er, I mean, gazing) out that window, with coffee and/or smoke curling around your all-natural cable-knit wool sweater and sunshine suffusing the room with so much warmth and delicate shadows that you feel like you're in a pharmaceutical commercial . . . do you think the pants matter? The socks? Get real.
The sweater.
posted by The Thin Man | 8:05 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home