“When I visit my parents’ house, I still find myself drawn to the basement. The room hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. The smell of musty furniture hits my nose as soon as I open the door; paperbacks, collapsible bins and hand-drums are stacked atop one another in bewildering configurations, sectioned off like displays in an antiques shop. Usually, I wait until after dinner to go down and sit on the stiff, floral-patterned sofa, staring at the decades-old detritus, eager to tap into my childhood creativity. I can still spend hours there alone, reading and writing until my eyes shut. Even now, entering the basement makes me feel like I am descending into parts of my mind that I didn’t know existed. The basement afforded us the privileges of escape and reinvention — a place where life was more than what it seemed and our messy thoughts wound their way toward purpose. As a writer, I try to recreate this alchemy in my work spaces. The sustained delusion and immersion required to make art requires time, privacy and patience — luxuries I’ve struggled to attain in my adult life.” At the link in our bio, find a writer's ode to the peace that can be found in an unfinished basement. Photograph by @brian_ulrich.