The last month has been full of literal upheaval for me, because Amy and I decided to sell our house and move. We've loved living in our house, but it has four floors from basement to attic and is on a very steep hill, and after Amy's hip replacement surgery two years ago, we realized we need to live somewhere more accessible.

Somewhere smaller and all on one floor: a rental so we can catch our breath after 10 years of the responsibilities of home ownership. Somewhere closer to public transit to make Amy's commute easier, but still close to parks and nature. Somewhere closer to the urban amenities I've missed, such as bookstores and museums and Asian grocery stores, but in a relatively quiet neighborhood. Where is this unicorn? Turns out it's Cambridge, MA, only a few miles from the house we own. And in what felt like a real miracle, we found an apartment immediately that fit every one of our requirements.

So, in early April we put our house on the market. That meant a massive round of decluttering to make the house ready to show. That meant letting go of so many things we no longer need, including 25 boxes of books. I'm not kidding! I sent over 100 copies of my own books to Books Not Bans, and donated half of my library to More Than Words.

I found it surprisingly easy to let go of these books. For a long time I kept acquiring books partly because I could (having a large library space in my attic allowed me to keep getting more books), but also because I often felt that I should own certain books, like Tolstoy's War and Peace. I no longer feel that way. Tolstoy has gone to More Than Words, and I'm only keeping the books I genuinely want to keep. (That means all of my yellow hardcover Nancy Drew books that I acquired from used bookstores and library sales when I was a kid. I don't read them these days, but I love them.)

It also meant downsizing from my attic library to a smaller office. During the pandemic when we all started doing virtual events, my attic library became my zoom set, which means a lot of you have seen it. Often, when I start a zoom meeting with people I've never zoomed with before, they comment on the attic. Is that real? they ask, and I tell them yes, it is.

Photo: My attic, looking toward a triangular wall of books. In the center is a stairwell that leads downstairs.

I hired a carpenter from western Massachusetts to build all the built-in shelves and desk and storage, including my bookcase doors that swing open to reveal a little closet. This was one of the first things I did when we moved into our house. The space has been a wonderful place for me to write. I finished A Line in the Dark in this space, and wrote all of Last Night at the Telegraph Club there. I also extensively revised A Scatter of Light in the attic, and I wrote my upcoming memoir there, too. Most of the writing took place in my orange armchair, where I had a view out the window of the Japanese maple outside our house. During the fall, it turns a brilliant shade of red.

When I began to tell people that I was moving, many of them immediately responded, "But you'll have to leave your attic!" They seemed sad for me, but also a little surprised. Who would leave such a wonderful space behind?

Photo: A view of my attic looking at my desk. This is not visible on Zoom but this is what I usually would see! On the wall above the desk are images that I referenced when working on A Scatter of Light.

But I haven't been sad about leaving the attic. It was indeed a wonderful space, but over the years, it has become something of a burden. It's at the top of the house, and I often had to climb two flights of stairs just to get there. The ceiling was low, and I've brained myself on it more than once, even after getting used to the height. There were so many shelves that I allowed myself to collect far more books than I would ever read or want to read; there were just so many little corners where I could store things. Out of sight, out of mind. I felt, in a way, that my attic had become uncontrollable. Like it was a garden that was growing a little wild, and I didn't have the time to tame it.

So I've been ready to let it go for awhile. But before I disassembled and decluttered and packed up my attic, I took several photos and videos to commemorate the space. Not only for me, but for those of you who have visited it virtually over the last five years. It's my way of saying goodbye to this space, and to offer my gratitude to those walls and shelves for being a safe place for me to write for many years.

You can watch the video below or on YouTube.

I'm writing this newsletter in my new office in my new apartment in Cambridge, MA. I'm still sitting in my orange armchair, where I know I will write new books. When this space is ready for its close-up, I'll share some photos, but for now, let me just take a breath. This is the first time I've sat in this chair to write in weeks — since before we began packing. There is a bird singing outside. It's a sunny day and summer is on its way. I can't wait to start working on my next book in this new space. More soon!

A Big Move