So, my husband and I just moved into a place where I have my own office. ::squeal:: This is odd. I haven’t had a desk in–years? Which is fine. I enjoy writing at a cafe; at my dining room table; kitchen island; etc. But with an actual space, with an actual door, I’m feeling like I may be more productive, write more steadily, and find inspiration a bit more. Hey, it’s worth a try, no?
Still moving forward with The Missing Crimoire. Doing the fun task of formatting this beast. Geesh. Who knew this would be such a pain?? (James Aries did. James, you did warn me.) So, steadily plugging along.
Now that I’ve thrown out the fact that I have a desk, and that I expect to be more productive/creative, I realize I’ve placed an expectation on myself. Keep me accountable! Look out, creative world. Robin Puelma’s got a desk.