Like swans, I used to believe that writers and caffeine were bonded for life. Turns out, I was wrong.
Had I actually written a list of things to give up in 2025, caffeine would only have appeared as a coffee stain on the paper—such is the usual chaos of my writing desk.
My mornings always began with strong black coffee, sometimes a small pot if I knew I had to get a lot of writing or editing done and couldn’t spare the time to dash downstairs and make a second, third, or (ahem) fourth cup. As the sticker on my writing notebook declared, “I turn coffee into words.”
Once my words were safely on the page and I switched into day-job mode, tea became my hot beverage of choice. “Tea?” was a love language in our house—sometimes a metaphorical olive branch, but more often it was a hug in a mug and a reminder to take a break from the screen. If Emperor Penguins bring their mates pebbles as love tokens, we brought each other mugs of tea (pre-warmed mugs only for Stu). Tea marked the passage of our days.
While my love of coffee stretches back to my teens, I was a latecomer to tea, discovering its delights only in my twenties. Both drinks fuelled me through to my half-century, and while I long ago ditched the dairy and artificial sweeteners, the relationship seemed solid.
But here I am—a caffeine-free writer.
So, what the hell happened?
It started back in October, at my first-ever BristolCon—a two-day sci-fi and fantasy convention I’d been looking forward to for months. Alas, my gloriously geeky weekend was interrupted when I was struck down with a mystery bug. Thankfully, it only lasted 24 hours, but it left me with a pronounced and enduring aversion to coffee.
I hoped it was temporary, but even weeks later, my autopilot morning brain would reach for the coffee jar, only for me to recoil at the smell of my usual dark roast. It was as if my body had decided, without consulting me, that coffee was no longer welcome. I consoled myself with the knowledge that at least I still had tea.
Then, the week before Christmas, I got well and truly walloped by flu. Three days unable to get out of bed, another week couch-bound, and far from feasting on festive fare, I wanted nothing more than a plain jacket potato and tall glasses of orange juice. The Christmas chocolates stared at me accusingly, robbed of their purpose, while I craved lemonade and yet more sleep.
Somewhere in the chaos, my taste for tea slipped away too.
I assumed it would return once I felt better. But five weeks later, I’ve given up trying, as I can’t bear to tip another mug of steaming tea down the sink. It’s such a waste—but worse, it feels like an insult to an old and loyal friend.
So, here I am—a decaffeinated writer. I’m half expecting the Society of Authors to revoke my membership card.
I wonder if I can get a new sticker for my notebook—something like, “I turn herbal tea into words.”
On second thoughts… maybe the world isn’t quite ready for that.
The happy ending to this sorry tale is that the words still flow. They always do. But these days, they arrive with a hint of lemon and ginger—or liquorice, if I’m feeling bold. And maybe that’s okay—for now.