There I sit. Feverishly penning away. Pausing occasionally to think of just the right word. Or work out an interesting plot twist. I barely notice my surroundings even though I took great care in setting them up just right. It’s my own little home; an ode to writing.
All the books that I love to read over and over are lined up on a shelf set into the wall. Copies of my own writing have their own shelf although I rarely glance at them again, afraid I’ll taint the purity of my current work. There are quotes from all walks of life and all kinds of people framed and hung on every wall. Some are inspirational. All are thought-provoking.
And then there’s my desk. It’s a roll-top and everything has its place. But I rarely sit at it to write. At least not until I need to use the laptop. I’m a little old-fashioned and write the story first by hand. So I have an over-stuffed chair in the center of the room.
And that’s where I sit now. Lost in thought. Pages piling up beside me.