Being appropriately dressed is important. I say this even though I don't dress like a woman who loves clothes. I do love clothes. I love clothes that fit well and do their job. I like soft natural fabrics. On rare occasions I might even wear something that looks half decent, or even good, which can be tricky.
Some people look good in anything. Johnny Depp, actor, musician, father, imaginary pirate and generally cool interesting person, looks good in anything. But beyond that, he has STYLE. (You could say he's got chic and you'd be right.)
OMG a grey scarf with a brown hat? Can't be done. Shouldn't be done.
Wrong. He's making it work. Now with me, that would just look like I rolled out of a dusty old closet after falling asleep on the floor after a disorienting day of sorting things into boxes marked "keep" and "thrift store" and "garbage," not that anything like that has actually happened to me.
But I digress. What I'm talking about here, basically, is workwear. Normally this would be canvas coveralls and waterproof boots (ha, water? It ain't water I'm worried about) because I spend a couple hours a day in the barn. But the other half of me works in the house, typing words into a little white computer. This requires a whole other kind of workwear!
I've chosen our boy Johnny to demonstrate something I'm thinking of naming "Sequestered Writer Chic." Like it? Johnny will be using scenes from 2004 movie adaptation of a Stephen King story, called "Secret Window."
In this movie, Johnny plays a writer with a few problems. I'll tell you what he's got right though: a sweet cottage in the woods and a killer gnarly ugly old bathroom to lurk around in. He loves that old bathrobe so much he wears it over his clothes. This particular writer character is not particularly well dressed, being a fan of dull drab argyles and grandpa-type cardigans. But the bathrobe. Dude. You just know that ratty old thing is so well washed it's as comfy as... an old bathrobe? Okay.
It's a cute portrayal of an enduring stereotype. Writers sit around, unwashed and tangle-haired, in their jammies, probably smelling bad, convinced that every word that spills out of them is magic. Or garbage. It's one or the other and sometimes both in one day. Is the stereotype true? Well I don't know about you but I can tell you, if I didn't have kids needing to be driven across the highway to the bus stop, and critters needing to be cared for, I might never get dressed. I'd be in my flannel jammies and my blue and red ugly old bathrobe. With my glasses crookedly perched on my face. And my hair looking like a haystack. Heck I might not even get out of bed.
That's not so bad, is it? Is it so bad, Johnny/ Mort? I'm ahead of the game for style though, because I have these nifty little fingerless gloves. They're basically small legwarmers with thumb holes. Oh, and they're hot pink. I got 'em on right now. Suddenly I am almost unbearably hip.
Ahhhhh.... speaking of unbearable....
JOHNNY. SERIOUSLY. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.
Okay, no, go ahead, I'm just exaggerating or kidding or something, it's okay, you can go ahead and look at me like that as long as you need to. I'm cool with it.
Is this guy going to keep on with the good looking stuff? I don't always make such a big deal out of his looks because I do genuinely appreciate his talent. No really I do. But hot damn. He is the King of that Scruffy And Pretty Guy thing that I am stoopidly drawn to. And he's just so darn cool. Yet hot. AT THE SAME TIME. I'm not into tattoos but I think he's got some new ink and I could spend an hour or so examining all the pictures. I mean, tattoos on him aren't repulsive.
And the vibe. This set appears to be some skeevy old abandoned house -- I swoon over abandoned houses, I don't know why, but it's like a moth to a lamp with me -- and he's totally upping the property value here.
I'd buy this house. Okay, truthfully this house would probably turn my crank even if he wasn't sitting there on the kitchen table daring me to order him to get his boots back on the floor where they belong, dammit. And I'd let him get away with it, by the way. I'd draw the line at the smoke. Geez, maybe I wouldn't even. Oh my gosh, would I let Johnny Depp smoke in my gloriously decayed ancient house?? Maybe I would!! Probably I would not let him. Most likely I'll never have to make that decision.
I'd at least run a broom across the floor. I'm a bad housekeeper but I don't like filth.
What was I talking about?
OH YES. Sequestered Writer Chic. Much like Hick Chic, only predominantly indoors. Yes, I am going to champion this style. I'm going to come in from the barn, put on my nice soft worn-in jeans, tie a scarf around my neck, add the hot pink fingerless gloves and slip the questionable bathrobe over it all. Instead of the smoke, I'll hold a purple gel pen between my fingers, because that is my instrument of choice. When I run out of words I'll stare at the lumpy imperfect wall in my room, in this 150 year old farmhouse, and any time I doubt myself I'll look at my delightfully slovenly appearance and say, I Am A Writer!
(And my hair smells like pine shavings and horses.)
Today's blog post has been brought to you by an extremely high stress yet happily exciting week.