Writing The Wrong Calamity

Writing is a solitary art, and I was spending too much time alone in my apartment. I started walking to the storied Hungarian Pastry Shop, where I’d grab an outside table, drink coffee, tip extravagantly, and write a lot. I also wrote at the Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center, either in the beautiful library-silent reading room on the second floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the plaza, or downstairs, in the spacious room I still think of as the coffee kiosk room, though, sadly, the coffee kiosk itself didn’t survive the covid lockdown.

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