Happy Place

Put all of that together, and you have my happy place to write.

Okay, more my own personal library than a public bookstore.  One that has some gorgeous glass doors that open onto a huge, old-fashioned farmhouse porch. I can sit at my bookshelf-surrounded desk, facing out those open doors onto the porch, watch the rain as the evening approaches, and sip my coffee while I write. 

Mmm ... I can almost smell the rain and ... is that honeysuckle on the air?

I was born in Washington, but right now I'm feeling nostalgic and homesick for Arkansas.  There was a magical smell in the air there in the summer.  As long as you lived far enough away from any pigs or cows.  Chickens.  Goats ...

Guess I'll just content myself to sit here in my empty bed (James works graveyards), surrounded by darkness, a glowing strand of Christmas lights hanging on the bedroom door and a bald cat staring me in the face meowing as I try to get back to rewriting my book. ...

Zoltar ... Honey, I don't know what you want.

Do you know how awkward it is to be sitting in bed on my laptop and have this Sphinx just sit here and stare at me ... ? The picture has him looking away, but he is, at this very moment, staring at my face. Not even meowing anymore, just staring me down ...

Should I fear for my life? 

Happy writing, everyone!