I was, technically, homeless when I arrived at the library. I’d drifted to Washington State after a year in Mexico, where I’d been reporting a story I’d hoped to turn into a book. Renters were scheduled to occupy my Miami apartment for the next four months, leaving me a geographic free agent. All I wanted to do was write. I considered squatting at a friend’s farmhouse, where I’ve written before. Another friend offered up her vacant summer home in Michigan.

As I was weighing my options, I came across an article about the Scandiuzzi Writers’ Room at Seattle’s Central…