New Yorker Humor Riff or How to trope on a trope as a reason for writing

Before I begin, I have to do a credit-where-credit…I came across a charming comedic trope on the smell of things in the New Yorker Feb 6th 2023 edition, written by Alyssa Brandt. And before you cringe at my use of a buzzword such as trope, I’m a musician, we’ve owned trope well-before trope became a verb.

Brandt’s trope: What does writing smell like?

From that question, my thoughts moved to what’s inspirational in the sensory. I can’t separate a smile from the smell of garlic and basil, the opening licks of Rhapsody in Blue, or the way my feet feel in-between soft sheets, and, of course, the grapey punch of a Valpolicella Ripasso. Smiles aside and bearing the Ripasso in mind, what inspires, goads, unleashes literary genius?

Hot or cold?

Alcohol or stimulant?

Sugary or laced with artificial sugar (not sure about prose or poetry fueled by aspartame or saccharin).

A slow-sipper or a slug?

A milkshake or herbal tea? (I shudder to think what verbal constructions might emerge from a glugging gulp of vanilla, or worse, cherry milkshake).

Is it possible that some of the new Graphic novelists drink Slurpies from 7/11, getting their brain-freeze on to economize on storytelling that fits in boxes?

What humble or elevated swig triggers the wildly unique juxtaposition of words?

For as much as Hemingway loved, er, um, a super dry martini and daiquiri and mojito and scotch-and-soda and Bloody Mary and Rioja, he claimed he only drank to make other people more interesting, and that he abstained from drink when writing (or, maybe cuz ya already had too much? But, hey, I’m keeping this rabbit hole free from judgement).

The sting of lemon or insertion of subtle lime?

Apparently, Carson McCullers liked a little sherry in her tea, Capote — a Screwdriver (“my orange drink”), and Poe — an eggnog with a dash of brandy (everything Poe ever wrote now makes complete sense…). I’m sure coffee is also well-suited to creative writing. Its varieties, its measurable depth of flavor, not to mention the time-worn and exotic journeys from plantation-to-table arriving in one’s morning mug or demitasse add up to contend as an elixir worthy of great thinkers and muses.

I’m still stuck on eggnog.