The voice on the other side of the door said, “Come
in.”
A bluish haze of cigarette smoke wafted through the writing
studio of perhaps America’s greatest living author.
Jim Harrison sat behind a desk, smoking a cigarette,
shirtless (due to a painful shingles outbreak), squinting one blind eye.
His writer’s desk and bookshelves were visible nearby, all in a comfortable jumble. His actual desktop — not a computer desktop because Harrison famously writes only in longhand — includes a small thermos of coffee, an ashtray, a yellow legal tablet and a bottle of red wine, in anticipation of his daily 3:30 p.m. cocktail hour.
His writer’s desk and bookshelves were visible nearby, all in a comfortable jumble. His actual desktop — not a computer desktop because Harrison famously writes only in longhand — includes a small thermos of coffee, an ashtray, a yellow legal tablet and a bottle of red wine, in anticipation of his daily 3:30 p.m. cocktail hour.
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