I sit at my window and look at the rain coming down. This is where I write. Every morning I come here, try to resist the urge to waste time playing solitaire, and write (or edit). Actually, a hell of a lot more editing than writing goes on, but sometimes, words get written. And then they get changed and improved, with any luck, by editing.
This is a lovely room with a Murphy wall bed on one side in case anyone comes to visit. I don’t write when I have children or grandchildren in the apartment. It becomes their room, adding to its sanctity. Besides my desk, the walls are also lined with books.
My view is of a stand of Douglas fir, tall resilient trees that dance madly in the winter storms we have here. But now they are standing still in the grey morning accepting the gift of rain. On a sunny day I may catch a glimpse of a sunrise through their black limbs. It’s an inspiring sight, but usually, as now, it’s mundane enough not to interfere with my work ethic.
Where do you write?