Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing from a diner chair in my kitchen. My computer sits on a baker's rack. This is where I write. I spend a lot of my free time next to this drafty window, my chair shoved up against the garbage can. The kitchen is the ugliest room in our apartment, to be sure. It was ugly and out of date when we moved in, and then my roommate decided to paint it lime green and for a second I thought it was better, but no. It's now just ugly andlime green. I have a little tin sign with a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt hanging on the rack in front of me. That and pot holders. Above my head is a sorry selection of liquor: peppermint schnapps leftover from a holiday party 2 years ago, amaretto that was a gift, and Bloody Mary Mix my roommate won in an auction. Everything else that shows up, disappears. I used to write in a coffee shop near my house one to three days a week, but I've been trying to be more careful about my cash, and so, lately, it's been seven days in this uncomfortable vinyl chair, with notebooks spread on the windowsill next to me, and last-ditch liquor above.

And yet, things are well. How goes it with you?



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Photo detail on main page courtesy of net efekt.

Read JJ's story, "My Wife in France."

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