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My office unapologetically reeks of romance, complete with walls a color the paint chip called “Passion” and a proliferation of flowers. For all my rough language and sarcasm, I am a girly-girl at heart.  (And also a slob, something I have masterfully disguised with these pics, not through the miracle of Photoshop, but housework. On account of it’s a miracle if housework gets done around here.) The bookcase nearest my desk houses copies of all the books I’ve written--thumbed copies on top, pristine and foreign copies inside (along with lots of cool, writerly knickknacks). That Victoria’s Secret bag beside it? That’s where I file my tax receipts.  (I live to make accountants’ blood run cold.) Beneath it is the infamous stack of magazines I go through for story and cover art ideas.

My desk is the heart of everything, and I’ve tried to fill it with anything that might inspire me or make me feel good--treasured keepsakes, gifts from friends and readers, and Dean Martin.  (Who was a gift to me from the wonderful women of Mid-Michigan RWA.  When I need a lift, I push Dean’s button, and he sings “That’s Amore” or “Everybody Loves Somebody.” Dino rocks.)

The other bookcase is my TBR bookcase.  Well, one of them, anyway.  On top of it is a collection of framed photographs whose purpose is to remind me of all the things I was before I became a writer.  (Sometimes I forget there’s more to life than deadline.) On the walls you can’t see here, I’ve hung awards and lots and lots of hearts in various media.  I also have a futon in case writer friends need a place to crash (or if I don’t feel like filing stuff), but it’s mostly used by the cats. 

Now then.  Just imagine all these pictures filled with piles of crap, and you’ll have a good idea of my true working environment. It won’t stay this way for long. Tidiness makes me nervous.