Crack Couch.
My favourite place to write in the entire world looks like it should be resting somewhere deep within a King’s Cross crack den.
I call it my crack couch.
It might have been a nice addition to a living room, once. But years of abuse from adolescent males has destroyed it to the point where I think it just wants to die. It isn’t even allowed inside the house anymore; it just sits on our upstairs veranda, exposed to the elements.
Why I do my best work on this couch, I have no idea. But I’ll sit outside at night, nestled in my dilapidated couch, and I’ll write for hours, completely disconnected from the rest of the world, completely calm. And I like the way it feels very much.
