Is it the constant mainlining of caffeine that makes writers tortured? Maybe. When I picture a tortured writer, I envision someone bent over a typewriter grabbing at their hair, a cigarette dangling between the first two fingers on their right hand and three or four half-finished and now-cold cups of coffee littered around their desk. Notes are, of course, strewn everywhere. The room is probably dark, too. It’s hard to be tortured in broad daylight.