At my desk

I know writers who minimise distractions by using software to restrict their access to the internet, or turn their desks to face a blank wall, or shut themselves away in a room with little but their laptop and a chair. I can’t do that. When I’m thinking things over–who to steer a conversation in a story, or how to get a character’s anxiety onto the page–I like to be able to look at the trees beyond my window, or reach out and find the warmth of my dog. That connection to living things means I can sit at my desk for longer. Inside I’m not screaming for the morning to be over so I can let my eyes rest by focussing on something more than a few feet away; I’m not feeling sorry for myself because I’ve been cooped up alone.

When I reach out to my dog, he’ll let out a happy groan or lick my hand. All is right with the world, and I can turn back to the screen and keep writing.