Writers, apparently, are a curious species who cannot lift a pen without a steaming cup of coffee within reach and a cat draped dramatically across their keyboard. One would think inspiration arrives only after the feline has shed a respectable amount of fur on the manuscript, and the coffee has reached just the right degree of lukewarm despair. This image, peddled with such persistence, has hardened into an archetype, as though the muses themselves refuse to visit unless one lives in a small apartment filled with half-finished notebooks, chipped mugs, and paw prints on the margins.
The truth, of course, is that creativity has never cared much for props. It does not require a cat, a cafetière, or a particular brand of melancholy. Yet people cling to these tropes with admirable devotion, as if genuine imagination might dissolve in their absence. Perhaps it is comforting to believe that genius can be coaxed into existence by adopting the right accessories. But reducing creativity to a lifestyle kit is rather like assuming a violinist will play better if surrounded by decorative violins. One almost hopes the clichés will persist, though, if only because they are so delightfully absurd.
Nilüfer Şen Çakar
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