Jacob Charles Wilson

✓✓ Read Receipts: The act of writing

Despite trying to overcome the cold, our boiler broke. My room, which is fine as far as London standards go, turned into a fridge for a week. Many people compare themselves to the caricature of the writer starving in their garret, hiding from the landlord, and dying of consumption—it's not romantic, it's awful. I spent well over a week unable to type because my hands were too cold and the bed was too comforting.