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.