When I am in pain, I stare out the windows and write about a world I am too sick to access. Creating in my office reminds me that though the world can wound, it is also a wonder.
Writing requires solitude so that the ghosts will come unencumbered.
Neither of us has dated another writer—we both said we wouldn’t. Part of our hesitation had to do with very literal questions of how to share space.
Maybe I’m just not a writer who’s meant to work in peace and quiet, as lovely as that sounds.
Not so long ago, I was a writer who wrote anywhere but at her desk.
It doesn’t really matter at all where I write—as long as, at some point, I have the option and availability to transition to my bed.