I live in a garret apartment with my husband,
Eliott, under the eaves of a quaint building in the Dupont Circle section of Washington, DC. It's as close to a Greenwich Village as you can get in Washington, though it still isn't that close.
The setting is perfect for us because we're poor little attic mice, er, I mean writers. If I remember correctly, the walls of our nest are off white, but I haven't seen them in a couple of years because they are completely covered with bookcases.
That's about all we have: bookcases, three tables and chairs, a bed, a wardrobe, all wood, all antique. One table serves as my work area, one as his, and one for eating. It has two lovely candlesticks on it.
Our laptop computers are the only objects in the room that look modern. We have no TV or stereo. The windows of our fourth-floor walkup look over the historic neighborhood.
In theory, we wake at sunrise, but doze and lounge sometimes for hours. Even when we get out of bed for the day, we're not much into clothes. Breakfast is simple, usually toast, oatmeal, bananas, juice, tea. For any meal, we're not into advanced cooking, though we like to make elaborate salads, and love fresh fruit.
We are pretty good about sitting at our tables and writing. We do get out, browsing for books, or doing research for our writing at the
Library of Congress. We love Washington. It's a city of monuments and free museums. We also know all the romantic and inexpensive places to eat.
We are 24, met in college in an acting class, have no children. We both studied English Literature.
And sex? Well, when we work at home, we take breaks. Nuff sed?
Cheers,
Mari
