Writer A works at home, the moment she wakes up. As she walks past the kitchen, she pours a glass of iced tea, then sits in her favorite armchair, props her feet on an ottoman, picks up her laptop, and starts typing. Dressed in a nightgown, her hair curling wildly, her glasses sliding down her nose, she spills words onto the page for an hour or three, until the words stop flowing. Writer B wakes up, dresses for the day, tucks her notebooks into her bag, and walks to the coffee shop. Once settled into her chosen seat (which may or may not be in her preferred corner), she pulls out her notebook and her current favorite pen, sips her coffee, and begins writing. Some mornings, she writes frantically in her right-slanted script with its occasional calligraphic letters; other mornings the words come slowly, reluctantly, but they do come.
Task: Try describing something familiar with one or two ordinary words that you wouldn’t normally use in that context.
Hank Jones had not been known for using his head for anything but a hat rack.
On yet another hand—assuming that she’d suddenly sprouted one, which she hadn’t, but an octopus had nothing on Jenna Dunnley when she was wrestling with a thorny problem. On this third hand, how deep was his preternatural acceptance? Was it something that would wear off in a few days or weeks, like a cheap veneer? Or was it bred-in-the-bone, time-tested, forged by fires hotter than hell, and absolutely unshakeable?