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Where the Magic Happens with Deb Linda

I do have a desk. My very own writing desk, with a desktop computer, a lovely lamp, and all sorts of dictionaries and thesauri arranged between bookends.

But I never use it for writing.

I know! Guess I’m just contrary that way.

I used to use it for writing all the time. Then the theater god got me a laptop, so I could sit beside him on the sofa, futzing around the web while he futzed around the web on his laptop. No more instant-messaging each other from separate rooms. Yup, now we send each other messages via our laptops while sitting close enough to reach out and hold hands. We’re dorky like that.

Originally, the idea was just to use the laptop for fun, when TG was home, and to treat my desktop computer as my work station.

Um, yeah. About that…

Hey, who knew I’d get so attached to the portability of my carry-anywhere writing tool? Or to the couch, for that matter. So, in the interest of honesty (and because I’m too lazy to clean off my desk upstairs just to show you where I don’t write), I will show you the places I truly do write.

(If you hover the cursor over the pictures below, you’ll find some extra, um, commentary.)

My main writing spot is the old leather sofa in our den:

This couch loves my butt.

It’s near a window, so I can watch birds, squirrels, and neighborhood cats cavorting when my eyes need a break from the screen.

Across the room is a friendly marching band to cheer me on:

(The picture hanging on the left in the photo is an old Chinese proverb: “Those who say it cannot be done should not interrupt the person doing it.” TG’s staff gave that to him for one of his birthdays — I like the sentiment, so I’ve adopted it. The frame on the right holds my kiddos’ self-portraits. It was a Mother’s Day gift a while back, and the self-portraits were meant to be place-holders until they could work out a good time to get professional photos done. But I liked the ones they drew themselves so much I couldn’t bear to part them.)

Below the coffee table (upon which I plant my feet while I write) is a basket full of my writing “stuff”:

Notebooks, colored pens and pencils (yes,  I color-code my notes, though not in any discernibly organized fashion; mainly, I just like playing with colored pens and pencils), emergency chocolate (I know I told you in the last Deb Dish that I keep emergency chocolate in my purse; one can never have too much emergency chocolate), etc. A lot of junk, really. I’m a bit of a magpie.

Sometimes, just to mix it up, I’ll go write in the living room:

I sit smack dab in the middle of the sofa, right where that little cat pillow is. And I put my feet up on the coffee table just like I do in the den, because it helps me get in the mood to write the kind of books that make you want to put your feet up when you read.

When the weather is nice enough I’ll sit on the deck, especially if I’m writing an outdoor scene:

Though this came to a grinding halt after I started getting dive-bombed by a pair of nesting robins earlier this summer. Let me just say, you do not want to f*** with nesting robins. They will Mess. You. Up. *shudders at the memory*

Finally…*drum roll*… the place where my best ideas come to me:

What? Of course I wear my glasses in the shower*. How else could I see what I’m writing on the tiles with my grease pencil?

BTW, if you ever want to see a really funny look on your spouse’s face, try saying “Hey, honey, I need you to come take a picture of me in the shower for my blog post.”

 

*That’s a lie. I don’t wear my glasses in the shower. Sorry. I’m a novelist – I lie for a living. Sometimes it’s hard to stop.