I like to write overlooking water. I know that some writers find the natural world a distraction. They would sooner be cocooned in an enclosed space where there is nothing but the writer and his words.

I would like to begin with a bold statement like “The WORLD is my studio!”, or “I write wherever and whenever The Muse finds me”; I would like to say that The Muse finds me scribbling frantically in a Moleskine at a café on the Left Bank in Paris, or atop the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, but in reality she just stands there tapping her toe and glancing at her watch while I mop spilled coffee from the keyboard on my little desk in my little Toronto apartment.

Calling my WorDoctor office a studio is precious—it’s a workplace, and, since I’m one of the lucky ones for whom work and play are indistinguishable, it’s also my play-space.

My main writing space is nestled in a dormer on the second floor of my home. My husband propped a temporary, albeit customized, desk for me there atop some file cabinets until we could find the perfect replacement—something heavy and oak.

I would like to tell you that my studio is an oasis of creativity, lined with frayed notebooks of my collected ideas, a library of books that inspire me or keep me humble, nothing that I don’t find either beautiful or useful. And this would be at least partially true—it’s just the first thing you’d notice upon entering is a bulky old treadmill I inherited from my parents.

In the early days my writing began in a closet with paper, pencil, and a flashlight. Later, as an adult, in a house with three small children and pets bustling about, I’d sit at an antique drop-leaf table used as a desk in the far corner of the basement

The room in which I work is fairly small and nothing special. I’ve dreamt of painting the walls some bold literary color but they’re still in their original beige.

To be honest, I don’t often use a studio to write. What I do have is a pile of notebooks and napkins that are filled with sometimes illegible words that are scrawled at a moment's notice.

The largest object in my study, and its focal point, is the desk. We bought it from a government surplus dealer about 25 years ago.

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