It's July. Like many of us, I'm working from home. 

In December I finished my undergraduate degree at The New School. Life is now a tricky experiment to see how long my anxiety will propel me (and my writing) before it's time to apply for grad school.  

Since moving to Manhattan last year, I've had no dedicated space to write. I've instead written on crowded Subways, in tiny cafes, on rickety ferries. But never in a dedicated room, with a door, and a desk all my own. 

So when I returned home from a holiday trip to Texas, I dropped my suitcase and dragged everything out of my 4x6 walk-in closet. I ordered a tiny folding desk and a stool, and in-between my winter sweaters and rain boots, I set up my new writing nook:

Now after work I get home and settle in for my evening writing routine. Some days I stare at the blank wall ahead of me, daydreaming about eating chocolate or moving to Cairo. Others, I journal. Today is Saturday. Shmoopy is napping on my lap, Ben is out for a run, and I'm writing this until I can't, and then I'll journal, and edit the piece on mental illness and family that I hope to submit for my monthly workshop. 

I have settled into my job at The Crime Victims Treatment Center, and working on the balance between my creative and professional life. I have one long-form essay out on submission, and another seventy-four half-written pieces in the works. It's a bit like square dancing. 

Life is both settled and unresolved, which is how I prefer it.  

Currently reading How to Write an Autobiographical Novel by Alexander Chee.   

This "now" page was inspired by one of my favorite humans, Derek Sivers. 

This page was last updated July 14, 2020.