I realized the other day, that in the several years that I’ve been blogging and telling you folks about my writing life, I’ve never talked about one thing: my office.

Or the lack thereof.

I could probably afford an office, but what’s the point? I’d never end up going there. I keep such odd hours that the convenience of being able to work on the sofa, the bed, the floor, is all too appealing.

But then, I live alone and have done so for a while now. I’m used to traveling and writing from a hotel room. An office would be a change of pace. And I’m not sure I’d like it.

On the other hand, in those days before late 2005, which is when I bought my first laptop, I did have a semi-office. Because I needed to work on a desktop and sit there on a chair in front of it while I worked, I spent less time on it. I actually had to get up and go to bed. I couldn’t turn over in the morning and switch on the computer to watch the news even before I’d gotten out of bed.

I’m pretty flexible, so as long as I have a room– any room– with a door and a lock, I’m able to work. Lately, I’ve been dreaming of a small room with bookshelves lining the walls though.