My usual space to write is in the far corner of the dining room on my roomy leather chair. The chair is old, worn, and cat scratched. The fireplace hearth is my coffee table where I rest my coffee mug. My lap is my desk. A view of the kitchen and whoever may be in it at the time is in front of me. The deck and the woodsy backyard are to my right and the fireplace, often on in the winter months is to my left. I can see almost all of the happenings of the household from this spot. At the same time I feel a sense of privacy because I am nestled in one, far corner of the dining room. I feel like I am in the center of the action yet removed from it.