I’ve always been a coffee guy. There’s something about the ritual—grinding beans, the first hiss of the espresso machine, that deep, roasted aroma—that has been a constant in my life. Tea, on the other hand, was always just some leaves in hot water. I never really got it.
But when I set out to write House of Leaves, I found myself drawn into a world I knew next to nothing about. Researching for a novel has a way of leading you down unexpected paths, and for me, one of those paths was Chinese tea.
First Encounters with Chinese Tea
I started, predictably, in the shallow end—buying a few pre-packaged teas and fumbling through YouTube tutorials. That was my first mistake. The world of Chinese tea isn’t something you can just dip your toes into. It’s deep, nuanced, and filled with traditions that go back thousands of years. If I was going to write about it with any real understanding, I needed to immerse myself.
So I did what any self-respecting writer would do: I found people who knew what they were talking about. A friend introduced me to a local tea house, and that’s where the real education began.
The Art of Gongfu Tea
Gongfu tea, or the traditional Chinese tea ceremony, is meticulous. It’s not just about making a drink—it’s about experiencing it. Every step is intentional: warming the pot, rinsing the leaves, short infusions that pull out layers of flavor. Watching the tea master at work was mesmerizing. I realized quickly that my coffee brain, with its need for efficiency and caffeine hits, was in for a challenge.
I started to appreciate the differences in teas—how a properly brewed pu-erh could have the depth of an aged whiskey, or how a high-mountain oolong could shift flavors between infusions. It wasn’t just about drinking something; it was about attention, patience, and an almost meditative focus.
Tasting the Story
One thing that struck me was how much tea, like writing, is about storytelling. Each tea has a history—where it’s grown, how it’s processed, the hands that have shaped it.
There’s an element of discovery in every sip, much like uncovering layers in a novel. This realization changed the way I approached my writing.
In House of Leaves, themes of perception, shifting realities, and hidden meanings play a central role. Experiencing Chinese tea culture gave me a different way to think about those ideas. The way a tea evolves with each steeping—subtle at first, then unfolding into something unexpected—mirrored the way I wanted my story to unravel.
Final Thoughts (And a Confession)
Am I a tea convert? Not exactly. I still love my coffee, and I probably always will. But learning about Chinese tea taught me more than just the difference between a raw and a ripe pu-erh. It taught me to slow down, to appreciate subtlety, to embrace process over instant results. And in some strange way, that made me a better writer.
So if you ever find yourself stuck in a creative rut, maybe take a step into unfamiliar territory. Learn something new. Drink some tea. You never know where it might lead you.