1990. My 13-year-old first born daughter moved in with me and my third wife, claiming my studio for her bedroom. Having always had a dedicated, enclosed, private space to create, I was skeptical that I could work productively in the dining room. But I adapted and wrote some pretty damn good songs on that Yamaha upright. I’m always amused when I hear other writers using their environment as an excuse not to get anything done. First world problems, right?