Where do I write? It depends on the time of year and my need for darkness.
Go ahead, make the vampire wisecracks. You could be on to something.
Where I don't write is around other people. I’m not one of those café writers. I don’t do crowds. I barely do public. The free wi-fi? Psht. Not having wi-fi would be a great thing for me if MS Word shipped with an unabridged dictionary instead of an anemic quick-reference version (homophones -- they are evil, eeevil).
My best work is done at home.
Spring / Autumn: 80% of the time you can find me out on my back porch. Dueling lawn crews will chase me inside almost as quickly as screaming children. The rest of the time, it’s me, the beastie, lots of Bambis, and random WTF-creatures. The shush and sway of the great maple tree is soothing. The fluttering of pesty finches, not so much.
Summer / Winter: I’m in my living room. Usually my arse is parked in a swirly swivel chair. My laptop rests on a super swanky TV tray. If, however, there is a storm, I migrate to the couch so the beastie can cower in my lap. When the weather permits, there is a fire in the fireplace. Other times, there are stinky candles to aid my senses in setting the scenes.
When Darkness Calls: I’d include a picture of this room, but without a night-vision lens, all you see is a big black box. Suffice to say there are bookshelves, a futon, and a painting done by my great-grandmother back in 1890. Yes, I keep the painting in a dark room. I don’t have to see it to know every shimmer of moonlight on the trees or the tranquility of the deer as it sips from the stream.
There you have it. A view of my writing spaces. I’m off to sort my “distains” from my “disdains.”