I used to write every day, used to play some music on this stereo that is still my stereo and sit at the too-small kitchen table in the uncomfortable and too-small kitchen chairs and write every day, for 20 minutes, each day, with a different-colored pen, there at the table beneath that framed print of David Byrne in the ivy leaf coat and with my back to the room, the music surging over my bent body; I'd give it all to the little book or I'd stare at nothing—the kitchen and its white plastic-laminate cabinets, the black gas stove, and the light filtering through the tiny square window to another window just above it—the place was mine, the time mine, every day; I wrote my heart out.