This is my desk, where I am supposed to write. It's really clean right now, which means I rather obviously haven't been writing as much as I should be. Cute, though, right?
However, unless it's one of those Phoenix nights in July when it's over ninety degrees and my palms are sweating all over my keyboard, between the hookah and the stars I usually end up writing out here:
It comes complete with a super adorable cat and plants that are stressing from the sudden temperature change. Note my unused bicycle in the background.
Maybe I'm just getting nostalgic, because I'm about to move to Tucson, and leave this apartment where I've lived for two years now (the longest I've lived anywhere since I moved away from home). I put down a holding deposit on a basement apartment near the university, and plan to put my desk between the two painted glass windows. It's such a good writing space that I'm making the bedroom my office, and the front room my bedroom, because I'm a writer and that's how we roll. Prime real estate goes to book overflow and manuscript boxes.
Luckily, the cat is portable.