Where Matt Ortile Writes

I try to be agnostic about where I write; I never have an excuse to not.

It’s 11:16 p.m., I have a draft due to Tajja on Monday, and I am at my dining table.

I used to think I was (or, perhaps, wanted to be) the type of writer who needs a great amount of space to write. Surrounded by papers and notes. Notebooks piled high. The detritus of work done. That, I was told, is what a writer looks like. So whenever I visit a furniture store, I admire the large desks, expansive, beautiful on all sides, implying that I should only buy such a table if I’ve a home office spacious enough where I can comfortably stick a gleaming block of mahogany in the middle of the room. I do not. But I do have my dining room and this handsome expandable from West Elm that seats six to eight. Enough for me and a few of my personalities.

The dining table suffices because, for one, I insist to myself that I can write anywhere. In 2019, I wrote The Groom Will Keep His Name: on the subway, at bars, at one of my locals where I practiced my Italian, at another of my locals (now shuttered) where the barista sang in harmony with the music, at airports, in my parents’ townhouse in Manila, in the library at MacDowell, in France. I try to be agnostic about where I write; I never have an excuse to not. Plus, I keep everything in Google Drive. I can do book edits on an A380 if I have to. If anything, I prefer it.

At home, I often get distracted. There’s always my bed. There’s always old episodes of Bake Off and my Nintendo Switch. When the pandemic first began, working from home did not sit well with me. I missed sitting in cafés, in public spaces where witnesses unintentionally held me accountable. There’s something reassuring about a fellow camper next to you, stationed by an outlet with a laptop and a latté, typing away. I can do that too.

Which is why I surprised myself when I said no to returning to the office. Catapult’s Manhattan space reopened and I’ve opted to stay in Brooklyn during the work week. That said, I’m still very much a squirrel in my apartment, so I’ve taken to a spot called Hamlet Coffee Company. It’s a few blocks away from me, and owned by two Korean American women. One of the baristas said, at this point, I shouldn’t have to show my vaccination card to sit inside—I’m here so frequently and they know I’m vaxxed. Still, I do. To set an example, I guess.

It’s 3:17 p.m., I still have a draft due to Tajja tomorrow, and I’m at Hamlet.

I’ve only written a hundred new words today because I spent the early afternoon editing essays by my writers at Catapult. Yeah, on a Sunday. This is not an example I wish to set. But they were hanging over my head; I couldn’t focus on my own drafts, my own deadline. I work weekends because time is flat and days no longer mean anything. But at least I’m getting things done. I followed up with sources for my latest article for Traveler; I pitched an essay to Zach when he asked. On Friday, I made Wiener schnitzel for one of the Rachels; before bed, I even cleaned the dining room and the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, and returned the tableware to the credenza.

Two-ish weeks ago, I turned thirty. “I finally feel like a writer,” I told Rachel. She, not a writer, replied, “Haven’t you always been a writer?”

What I meant to say, I suppose, is that all the work now feels like it does lead up to something. That, as disparate as the tasks seem to be, they’re all in the service of me working, living by telling stories. That, for the most part, I’m happy to do it. That, whatever the work, no matter where I am, I am writing. That, I believe, is what matters.