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Fit the First

Fit the First

The Guardian used to run a weekly column called Writers' rooms, which consisted of a photograph of a writer's workspace and a brief essay about it by the writer. The photos all seemed to have been taken without a thought to cleaning up, and I liked the almost universal disarray. Stacks of books, printed drafts, glasses, cords, pens, postcards, lamps with yellowed shades, dust, painted cast-iron radiators. I have postcards, too, I thought, so at least I'm doing that right. Since there's no final arbiter of who is and isn't a writer, it can be difficult for a young, unpublished individual to figure out if she really is one or not. What are the signs of being a writer? Postcards on your desk? Possession of a Moleskine notebook? An addiction to laudanum? I didn't know any writers myself, so those workspace photographs were my first glimpse of what the work of writing looked like. And after weeks of reading that column it became clear that what makes a person a writer is doing the work. That's it.

So here is where I do my work. My dad used to read Tolkien to me before bed. My mother gave me the glass jellyfish paperweight; it reminds me of Leopold and Rudolph Blaschka's glass models, which I love. The postcards are from a visit to a friend in Boston. The hard drive is so I don't have to keep paper drafts in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator like Myron Krupnik. I find the quote from Ben Franklin faintly threatening, in a helpful way. I'm not sure yet what I'll put up on this website, but hopefully it'll be worth reading.

Inhabited by muskrats!

Inhabited by muskrats!