Where Jami Nakamura Lin Writes

That’s what my own process of writing, and living, is like: trying to conserve, redirect, and restore my energy in the most fruitful way.

For years I tried to create the kind of office set up worthy of Instagram. In a couple of the places I’ve lived, I even succeeded: I decorated the area around my desk with crafts and quotes I watercolored and my favorite artwork. But I never actually wrote in those spaces, no matter how aesthetically pleasing I made them.

Lately, I’ve been trying to come to terms with the fact that no matter what kind of desk setup I create, I’ll only ever write in bed. I have bipolar disorder, and I get physically and mentally exhausted very easily. I also have a two-year-old, which tuckers me out. Luckily, over the years my husband has given me a variety of gifts (a hammock, a narrow floor futon for the kitchen, the disconcertingly named “husband pillow” with arms and a back) that allow me to spend a lot of the time lying down.

Several doctors have told me that working in bed is bad for your sleep hygiene, as the bedroom is only supposed to be for sleeping and sex. If you do your work there, they told me, it’ll be harder for you to fall asleep at night.

That probably is true. However, I’ve learned that writing in bed, while lying down, allows me to conserve my energy to the greatest extent. I wrote my entire Catapult column in bed, leaning against the “husband pillow,” and I’ve been writing my memoir-in-essays The Night Parade (forthcoming from Custom House/HarperCollins in 2023) in bed as well. So I’ve started trying to make the setup work for me as best as possible.

We brought an old bookcase up to the bedroom, and I have a little desk that can swing over the bed if needed, though I usually just write with my laptop on the bed. On the shelves near the bed I have a stack of books I can grab, and a wooden box my friend Corey made for me where I keep my knitting. I never got the hang of mindfulness meditation, but I find knitting very soothing. I often parse through my writing in my head while knitting.

Next to the laptop is my Roterfaden, which is a leather system that can hold multiple smaller notebooks using metal clips. I found out about it when I saw Esme Weijun Wang post about hers on social media and I was obsessed— I’m a sucker for notebooks and office supplies. The Roterfaden was pricey, so it was my splurge reward for selling my book. The other larger notebook is a Leuchtturm1917 Master Classic. It is the hugest notebook I’ve ever used and is too heavy to carry around easily, but I love how big the pages are. I write most of my essays longhand first, and I like to have space to scrawl. The stickers on my laptop were created by my sister Cori Nakamura Lin, who is also illustrating my book.

Most of my books are downstairs, in our living room. That same friend who made my knitting box made these built-in bookshelves and they are my favorite part of my house. I was hoping I would use this area to write—we even got a daybed for this room instead of a couch—but nope, I still write only in the bedroom. Therefore I’m constantly trucking books up and down the stairs. It’s not the most ideal scenario.

My bedroom has nothing hanging on the walls, and I’m always slightly embarrassed when people see it. I keep meaning to decorate but I’ve never gotten around to it. But from my bed I can see my garden through the window. The garden is the space I tend, the space that restores my internal energy. When I’m stuck on an essay, I’ll think about it while I water the daikon or gather the raspberries or snip the suckers—the shoots that grow out the side of the plant—off my tomatoes. Snipping the suckers allows the plants to conserve energy and direct it towards the main stem.

That’s what my own process of writing, and living, is like: trying to conserve, redirect, and restore my energy in the most fruitful way.