On May 1, 2020, in the middle of the COVID lockdown, I purchased an 1865 Second Empire Victorian. Evidently, pestilence, death, and possible unemployment wasn’t enough stress for me. Despite the cracked plaster crown molding, the one-hundred fifty years of built-up paint on the grand staircase, and decades of neglect and questionable renovation choices, the house was perfect for me. My list of “Must Haves” for a new home included extra rooms for a dedicated office and a separate, formal library, something I’ve coveted for over thirty years. The house I found in Buffalo’s Lower West Side contained both.
While I was house hunting, I imagined my new office in the smallest bedroom or, perhaps, a first-floor den. I never pictured it to be in a cupola high above the street accessed by twenty steep, winding stairs. The space is small, but the view is tremendous. From the front window, I can see the Connecticut Street Armory, a massive castle-like structure built in 1899. From the back, I have a view of not only the Niagara River but also the brick house where a Mafioso in charge of collecting for Stefano Magaddino once lived. He hanged himself there when Magaddino caught him skimming and gave him the choice of suicide or watching his family die. From the western window I can see Canada, reminding me I can make a run for it if the mob is ever after me. My eastern view is of my neighbor smoking Lucky Strikes and pounding beers at 10am on the fire escape of an 1898 brick mansion now carved into apartments. It’s not my favorite vista. Nick The Carpenter installed double-pane glass in the cupola’s original window sashes, so they no longer rattle or leak, but I still need a heater in winter. The room warms quickly, though. In summer, the cold A/C air sinks down those steep, winding stairs making it too hot to work there in the afternoon.
My Second Empire has a Mansard roof so the interior walls of my office slope. This makes hanging pictures a challenge. I’ve discovered that Velcro works wonders for ensuring that framed photos and memorabilia lie flat. Some of the pieces I have hanging in my office include the February 1984 edition of Fight magazine signed by Ray ‘Boom Boom’ Mancini, a quote by Jack Kerouac, and the ticket stub from Clarence Clemons’ last concert with The E Street Band. I edit my work at a stand-up desk facing the river and the dead mobster’s house.
My house’s listing described the parlor off the dining room as a library. Perhaps it was at one time, but when my realtor showed the house, there wasn’t a single book or shelf in the room. However, there was a long, bare wall begging to hold my collection. With ten-foot ceilings, it could fit a lot of titles. It was a year after closing before I was able to hire Nick The Carpenter to turn that parlor into a library. I gave him a photo of an 19th Century English bookshelf and asked him to replicate it in mahogany, which he did, turning a bare, boring space into the coziest room in the house. It’s here where I research my historical fiction. For my forthcoming novel, After Pearl, a noir mystery set during World War 2 about an alcoholic detective and his little one-eyed dog named Jake, I sat in the leather chair by the marble fireplace and read and took notes on such books as Don’t You Know There’s a War On?, Alcoholics Anonymous, I Was A Hotel Detective, and other books from that era.
So, if I research in the library and edit in the cupola, where do I write? My dirty secret is that I write in bed. I have a day job, so my writing time is from five to seven A.M.. A few years ago, on a cold, gray, Buffalo November morning, my alarm went off at 4:45 as usual, but I couldn’t physically get out of bed. I was awake but had no desire to leave my warm covers to go upstairs to write. I missed three writing sessions in a row and was filled with self-loathing when I realized, smart guy that I am, that I could simply bring my laptop downstairs. Now when the alarm goes off, I turn on my father’s goose-neck lamp, prop myself on two pillows like I am now, and reach for my Mac. The light from that old lamp is soft, the bed’s warm, the room quiet except for the snoring of my little one-eyed dog not named Jake, and I write. Seven days a week. That’s how After Pearl was written.
It’s been four years since I moved into this house. The crown molding has been repaired, missing pocket doors have been replaced, the agony of stripping the grand staircase by hand is behind me (Nick the Carpenter finished them when I ran out of steam.). The interior restoration is nearly complete. I’ve done some research on this old beauty and discovered that Robert Titus lived and died here. Titus was one of the attorneys who reluctantly defended William McKinley’s assassin in 1901. He lost that case, and Czolgosz got the electric chair. A friend visited recently. I gave her the full tour from library to cupola and told her about the hanged Mafia guy and Robert Titus. When I finished, she smiled, raised her wineglass, and said I lived in a house fitting for a historical novelist. I liked that, and we touched glasses.
Stephen G. Eoannou is the author of the award-winning short story collection Muscle Cars and the novels After Pearl, Yesteryear, and Rook. He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and an MA from Miami University. He has been awarded an Honor Certificate from The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Best Short Screenplay Award at the 36th Denver Film Festival. His novel, Yesteryear, was awarded the 2021 International Eyelands Award for Best Historical Novel, The Firebird Book Award for Biographical Fiction, and Shelf Unbound’s Notable Indy Books of 2023. He lives and writes in his hometown of Buffalo, New York, the setting and inspiration for much of his work.
