There is the dream of the writer’s life, and there is the reality. It’s about as far as I can imagine from a sacred, secluded space of creation. It also functions as an entertainment center for my toddler, a call center and accounting system for me, and the repository of thousands of unnecessary photos and videos. My computer generally has thirty web browser tabs open at any given moment, and the imprints of a few hundred WiFi networks I’ve accessed over the years (which I should delete, but haven’t gotten around to doing). In reality, I’ve written all my novels on a laptop which I’ve trucked around from the kitchen table to my bed, to countless cafes and trains. I have a dream writing space, which is like all the ones you see on Instagram: cozy wooden desks surrounded by books and a view of nature, secluded from the rest of the world, blessed with a desktop computer, a generous monitor, and an inspiring quote or two.
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