Yesterday, I almost burned down our house.

I was in my office doing my morning workout to the exercise video from hell (One. Two. Three. Kick. One. Two. Three. Kick.)

Let me describe the room: There is a television set just inside the door, an open area in the center, and my French provincial desk (Macy’s circa 1990) under two casements windows overlooking the backyard. The desk and windows are to my left as I face the TV. When I exercise (Twist. Bend. Twist. Bend), my ferret moves back and forth, trying to find the optimum location to trip me and cause irreversible brain damage.

My desk contains the usual writer’s clutter. Toward the front is a pile of legal pads, construction paper, news clippings, and a calendar. Next to that is a thick cardboard box containing six ink bottles – the kinds that students once kept in inkwells on the desks in one room schoolhouses – perfect for dipping the braids of the girls who sat in front of them in class.

Along the back of my desk are a glass shaded desk lamp and a small basket containing a bag of Korean War medals, an empty bottle of 10% cocaine solution in honor of Sherlock Holmes, a roll of tape, and an index card on which I have typewritten my favorite quotation from Cyrano de Bergerac.