I want an office. It’ll be a nice place, not busy, but not quiet. It’ll be near a bookshop, but not a coffee shop (distraction!). It’ll have internet – for research – but not a phone (another distraction!). It’ll have a massive desk, with room for a computer, and to spread out when I write by hand and for piles of papers. It’ll have a comfy sofa, for thinking sessions (and absolutely not afternoon naps) and a shelf of reference books. And it’ll have a wall of whiteboards, so I can plan and write out timelines and character developments and plot as I go.
Instead, I write in my tiny, though lovely flat. My only desk wobbles. There’s no room for a proper desk. I normally sit on the floor to write on the coffee table, or hunch over the arm of my chair, which can’t be good for my posture and definitely isn’t good for my back. All my notes and plans are scribbled on bits of paper I keep trying not to lose, and are never where I can find them when I need them. My reference books are scattered all over the place. It’s all very inconvenient.
And yet still I write, and write a lot. I suppose that’s proof you don’t need a perfect environment in which to write. I can write anywhere. But on the whole, I’d rather write in my office. Or failing that, a luxury hotel room by either the moors or the seaside, like Agatha Christie.