In the fall I had to move out of my Hamilton apartment because of a cockroach infestation (the glamorous life of a grad student and aspiring writer).
Since then, I’ve been geographically unstable, moving between cities and rooms and comforters, home-making with a few favourite books, a miniature of Sadness from Inside Out, and the blue and white bird salt & pepper shakers that once belonged to my grandmother.
I’m always looking for those few quiet moments and patches of sunlight on oak to write amidst the chaos of grad school and the ups and downs of depression. My writing spaces are other people’s desks; the corner table at indie cafés; anywhere with music or stacks of library books.
Some spaces are waiting to be discovered and others are waiting to be built.
Thank you to all the people who have given me room to write, sharing space and tea and favourite albums.
Also my cat Dragon, who doesn’t so much help as distract me—but I enjoy her company anyway.