The Ivory Intersection
December 10, 2010
My mother was an author. When I was young, she did most of her writing in the kitchen. She set her typewriter on a table in the middle of the room and she’d sit there, typing away. We’d come running in with all our childhood emergencies. She’d stop, take care of us, and then go back to her writing. Someone once asked her how she was able to get her writing done. She replied that she didn’t have an ivory tower; she had an ivory intersection. The middle of the house, the place where everybody was coming past: That’s where she did her writing
