The Windows are Illuminated

I’m in LA and can’t sleep. Sort of a Barton Fink moment. Can’t read, can’t write, a mosquito dancing around my ankles. I used to go nuts when writers blamed geography for their writer’s block. You’re not a princess. I wrote the bulk of my first two books on Metronorth, a loud and smelly commuter train where six people would cram into the six seater, their broadway playbills in hand, and yak about how dirty the city is, the portions at Carmines, their kids bringing home college laundry, a rude receptionist at the podiatrist. I worked with an author who needed complete silence. Another who couldn’t work if anyone was home. Another who could only work in cafes with a symphony behind him of cups and saucers, the sound of milk being steamed, the tapping of a small spoon inside a tea cup. Saying you can’t write somewhere is a mattress and a pea. Any restriction is avoidance in my opinion. Unless you’re in LA, in which case it’s totally justified so get yourself an Arnold Palmer and shut the fuck up.

What circumstances do you need to write?.