Like the pet-store gerbil, the writer should come with a Easy Care and Feeding tag.
Judging from the flotsam around my desk, I stay afloat via various mugs and cups. In them, writerly beverages. Coffee. De rigeur, my darlings, de rigeur.
Earl Grey tea bags, their strings snaking out of the tea cups like thin tails.
There are also bowls filled with dried crevices, leftover enticements. Fried rice. Nut butters (from an experiment to make them myself in the blender and in so doing saving probably less than one half of one cent, but the pride! the pride, people, in making one's one nut butter!)
Spoons, forks, a thesaurus given to me by a friend, A Prayer attributed to St. Francis is affixed to my old-school monitor and I've highlighted "where there is discord, union" in pink Hi-Liter and various humorous (to me) postcards of witches, which is more and more how I see myself. There is a bottle of supplemental calcium for my bones.
In one postcard a classic witch with an upheld hand is about to throw something into a cauldron. Green Pez candies? Emeralds? This, of course, is what writing is.