Since moving to Toronto in 1985, every house or apartment I’ve either rented or owned has had an office, or at least a dedicated space for writing. One that’s properly outfitted, with a desk, a comfortable chair, a filing cabinet, storage for books and supplies, good light, everything one would need.
I have never sat, or worked, in any of them.
When I got to the part, in the book I’m writing, where my mom died I couldn’t write at home. It took me about six Continue reading