My main writing space is nestled in a dormer on the second floor of my home. My husband propped a temporary, albeit customized, desk for me there atop some file cabinets until we could find the perfect replacement—something heavy and oak.
Read moreI would like to tell you that my studio is an oasis of creativity, lined with frayed notebooks of my collected ideas, a library of books that inspire me or keep me humble, nothing that I don’t find either beautiful or useful. And this would be at least partially true—it’s just the first thing you’d notice upon entering is a bulky old treadmill I inherited from my parents.
Read moreIn the early days my writing began in a closet with paper, pencil, and a flashlight. Later, as an adult, in a house with three small children and pets bustling about, I’d sit at an antique drop-leaf table used as a desk in the far corner of the basement
Read moreThe room in which I work is fairly small and nothing special. I’ve dreamt of painting the walls some bold literary color but they’re still in their original beige.
Read moreTo be honest, I don’t often use a studio to write. What I do have is a pile of notebooks and napkins that are filled with sometimes illegible words that are scrawled at a moment's notice.
Read moreThe largest object in my study, and its focal point, is the desk. We bought it from a government surplus dealer about 25 years ago.
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