Nowadays I write when the saws aren’t whining downstairs or one of my boys isn’t tumbling into my study, complaining about his odious brother. Seriously, right now—living through a kitchen renovation during the summer, my prime writing time—has been a huge challenge. It’s discombobulated my otherwise pretty disciplined rhythm, which I established in graduate school years ago. At that time, I felt so guilty about leaving a ‘real’ job, and living on the tiny scholarship, I felt I had to be at it, every morning. I lived in a tiny studio, worked at the kitchen table and listened to the family next door in a gorgeous Victorian back down their driveway every morning, going off to the ‘real world’. I remember feeling terribly deprived, sure I would never have such a life, and yet pure, Spartan.