Here's where the magic happens. Well, sometimes it's just a slog and any magic that happens is that I finish enough writing to make me feel halfway justified to stop for the day. I live in a Spanish style duplex built in the hills above Hollywood in 1927. When I saw this light filled closet I immediately decided it would be my office. It already had shelves for books. And how much room did I need? Just enough for a little desk and a laptop and a bulletin board filled with notes and photographs. There's a hummingbird feeder outside what I call the goblin window, and I hear them chirping all day long. This is pure luxury compared to my old "office" in Hell's Kitchen, New York. I wrote in a corner overlooking a parking lot surrounded by razor wire while an orchestra of bleating horns and sirens played. I had to keep the window shut because of exhaust fumes. But one thing I've learned over the years. If you're going to be a writer you just write. You write as if your life depended on it. If you're a writer, it does.
A muse of mine - I have several that have come to me over the years.