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Because I have a room, a little peach-walled study lined with books and papers, even a window seat that looks out on our small dappled lawn, I have a place of creation in my mind. It really does work. So I wander down the stairs and adjudicate some sibling crisis. But I wander right back up again, sift around in some of the historical materials I’ve collected, and before I know it, I’m back in the world of sugar cane workers and angry Scottish overseers. The interruptions are there, but the plunge back isn't so hard. For a writer, or at least for this writer, a home becomes that grounding, that place from which all the complicated plants of living and working can flourish.

My husband’s parents, Boris and Lisa Aronson, were set designers, and late in life left their rambling Upper West Side apartment and built a beautiful modern house on a cliff from which they worked. To this day, there is still a hanging rope pulley where they cranked up the set models my mother-in-law painstakingly created. Rooms there are plate glass and wood, studios, storage, living room repurposed accordingly over the years. Boris called their house “a laboratory for work and living.”

That’s perhaps what we needed, here in our circa 1907 four-square home. A laboratory, from whence children can be raised and manuscripts written, all at the same time.

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Categories Writing | Tags: Boris Aronson, Children, Family Life, Home, Manhattanites, Manuscripts, Writing

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