Editor—I read “A new home in writing” (Tower/April 7) not quite knowing what to expect. For various reasons, writing is an interesting subject to me, so I began reading.
The title is a bit misleading, as the real story here is the writer’s experience with homelessness. The first line of the smaller headline (“Memories of teenage homelessness”) may have been more fitting.
Nonetheless, I understood the intention and I also understand it might be a bit absurd for me so spend this much time focusing on the title. This story intrigued me because I recently returned to school after a brief period of travel where I had no money.
When I returned, I still had no money and had to surf couches, sleep in odd places, and eat out of the trash.
Homelessness comes in many different forms, and the writer certainly is lucky. It makes me happy to know that people can recover their lives and create art. The last few lines were beautiful, “the joy and the sadness. The tragedy and the adventure.”
It reminded me, personally, of an old opinion I’d thought I’d forgotten: life is essentially art, no matter which direction it takes you. That would therefore make the act of living an art form, no matter what life throws at you. And I suppose that’s one more reason to keep living.
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