Don’t Write Alone | Where We Write

Writing at Home With My Parents, Who I’m Definitely Not Fictionalizing in My Novel

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.

The Four Humors

Here’s my most recent example of how I’ve attempted to finish writing this piece in the kitchen moments before family dinner, while also helping cook dinner. | Photograph courtesy of the author

This past year, I lived in a subletted room in Los Angeles, where I had fled near the end of 2020. The reasons were many: My day job was remote, I had never lived anywhere but New York City, I had close friends in Los Angeles, and yeah, I had been living at home with my parents for three years at that point, even before the pandemic.

nothing at all.

It’s not too late! Your epigenetics! Your eggs!

A graceful birth. | Photograph courtesy of the author

My former balcony with a great view of The Mosque. | Photograph courtesy of the author

I’m actually not sure if this one is a raven or a crow. | Photograph courtesy of the author

I’d bought a cheap desk for my room in Los Angeles. Probably I spent a total of fifty hours working on this desk in the span of a year. Again, mostly I wrote in bed. My bedroom in Los Angeles resembled a tree house. Once, while I was writing in bed, an owl sat in the big tree and watched me from outside for hours. It was a period of time so sublime I didn’t even think to take pics.

Here is my former bed in Los Angeles with a view of the owl’s temporary resting tree. | Photograph courtesy of the author

A black-crowned night heron, which I believe resembles a Hayao Miyazaki character. | Photograph courtesy of the author

Here is my bed in Brooklyn. | Photograph courtesy of the author