I am fortunate enough to live in a house which has a perfect first-floor room for a library/study. The desk I bought years ago for my ‘someday’ office looks charming in the room, set on an angle, since I hate straight lines in any room. The shelves are filled with books, both my favorites and a complete shelf of books on the craft of writing. I love heading in there each morning with a cup of coffee and my little dog at my heels. She takes up a place on the rug in the corner as I tend to emails, check my overnight stats, that type of thing.
I usually finish off the morning by writing, at least for a couple of hours. Depending on where I’m at in the process, it’s either the hard work of writing the next story, or putting together a guest blog, or editing the book about to be released. Such a nice, orderly life for someone who hates straight lines, you say?
It life could only be that idyllic. The title for my contemporary which was released in March is The Road To Comfort. I came across that phrase on a quick trip from Ohio to North Carolina. As my sister and I madly sped along the PA turnpike, the phrase wouldn’t get out of my mind. By now, I’m aware that if I want to get something out of my head, I need to write it down. So there I was, scrambling in the car for a pen and paper, as we zipped down the road at 70 miles per hour. One thought after another poured through my mind. What if my heroine was on a road trip? Speeding down the highway with the radio blasting, on a trip to nowhere. A trip to Comfort. By the time we arrived home, I had the major plot points figured out, and the book came together quickly thereafter.
My other contemporary, which released in April, Voice Of An Angel, came to me one night when I was dozing in my recliner. I had just finished watching Eddie & The Cruisers, one of my favorite movies of all time. I began to think about a musician in the DC area who had died while in her twenties. Her voice and her music live on to this day. So, in my foggy, sleepy state, the two plot lines came together. What if a musician didn’t die, just disappeared? Yet her music lived on? I stood from my chair, raced into the study/office/library and began to plot point my next book.
So, even though I have a nice, orderly office with a shiny desk and a spanking new computer, my writing seems to take place wherever I happen to be.