12 August 2015

Craft.


His table is draped in a white cloth and topped with countless books and papers, a water cup, an ashtray, a lamp with a yellowed shade. Light pours from the windows and tumbles over potted cactuses and family ephemera — everything in the house belongs to the Bergiers, with the exception of Harrison’s supplies. Though the author doesn’t “want to think about how much time” he’s spent in that room, he does acknowledge its effect on his craft.

“This feels like the right place,” he says. “Writers worry that they’re not in the right space, but I don’t. Not here. There’s so much wild country, and I have my ideal neighbors. No one.”

So he writes and he smokes — American Spirits, one right after another. They’ve turned his voice to silt and his skin the color of an old catcher’s mitt, yet he lights them with the longing of a man consumed.

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