The Writer’s Wardrobe

An MFRW Author Post–and check out the other blogs on the hop!

 

I spend a lot of time at home. In fact, if I’m not careful, I could go three or four days before necessity required me to leave the house. I try not to let it come to that, but the point is that it’s all too possible, and with the possibility of no one but my long-term partner and my cat interacting with me for days, it’s all too easy to slip into some pretty shoddy hygiene habits.

That’s why every day, after I work out–I get dressed and go to work.

Because when you treat your home office like the office, it means you can’t sit around looking at cute shoes on Pinterest all day. It means you can’t spend the whole afternoon cooking dinner for the week. While comfort is key, so is the sense that what I’m doing is important, it’s a job, and it deserves the respect of a fresh pair of jeans and a clean shirt. For the same reasons I do not work in bed, I never work in my pajamas, and I never work in my glasses. 

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All that being said, I really love the writer aesthetic.

The writer aesthetic is blue and grey (perfect for my coloring!) Sometimes it’s loose on top and sometimes it’s loose on the bottom. Boyfriend jeans and flannels are part of the writer aesthetic. Sweaters hang off one shoulder, exposing grey tank tops–the writer aesthetic.

Sometimes, there are ankle boots. Other times, tall, riding boots hit at the knee, with loose, navy cardigans to balance. The writer aesthetic is cozy. It is sleepy and comfy, it is intentionally messy buns and no makeup and stretchy jeans. It is the uniform of the rainy-day, tea-drinking, muse-chasing writer, and it is my favorite.

girl-926199_960_720Of course, the writer aesthetic is not for every day. Sometimes, it is too hot. Sometimes, it is too cold. Sometimes there is too much real work to be done and we cannot romanticize faded denim and loose cotton as anything more than a means to an end.

But sometimes, when the skies are a little grey and the bright yellow of changing leaves stands out against the horizon, I drink big mugs of lemon tea, hands half-covered in the loose ends of flannel or wool. I could be the writer in a movie, shuffling from room to room, coffee pot to tea kettle, chasing the next story, dressed for the job of my dreams. ♦

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