In a past issue I’ve sent a photo of my excellent borrowed deck that I get to write on when the weather holds out, so I figured I’d bring it indoors and underground to my Toronto hobbit hole, where I sometimes work. At the moment this very fancy desk has been the place that I’ve been piling writing related things, including edits and galleys, and the many pilfered copies of The Walrus that I snagged when attending the Amazon First Novel award a few weeks back. When I ever clear this thing off, and use it as an actual writing desk, I still need the same things as I did when I wrote my previous Writing Spaces entry last summer: that old war vet laptop that I do all my work on, the notebook with all my story plans and notes, and the music that comes out of that computer. In colder seasons, when I can’t be outside writing, I can usually get something done if I get my ass off of the couch and put it in that chair. Just moving that six feet across the room often leads to some productivity.