by Meredith Cole
Back when I lived in a small New York apartment, I used to dream of a room of my own. I would have my large desk all to myself and I would have a door I could shut against the world and get some serious stuff done.
But once I had an office, I realized that I hated writing in it. I stored far too much stuff in it (books from competitions I was judging, bills to pay, etc.) for it to be Zen like or creative.
So where do I write? In bed. At the dining room table. On the couch. Oh--and when the weather is nice, on our screen porch. Every space has its limitations, but moving around somehow keeps me writing. And that's what's most important.