If you’re a reader—or a writer—or a reader and a writer, I’m glad you stopped by here on your way through cyberspace. Stick around awhile and you’ll learn stuff. Like the fact that cyberspace is a noun meaning “the notional environment in which communication over computer networks occurs.”


This definition immediately raises three questions:

  1. Who writes definitions like that?
  2. How much do people get paid to string 10 words together?
  3. Why am I even talking about cyberspace?

I have no idea. So let’s just say I’m here in my office and you’re wherever you are. Trey, our rescue Sheltie, is here too, sleeping because that’s what dogs do when they aren’t chasing squirrels, barking at school buses, waiting for a Milkbone or rolling over for a tummy rub. (Not a bad life.)


This office of mine used to be our younger daughter's bedroom. I launched the transformation 30 minutes after I got back from driving Amy to Tufts (1,400 miles away) to go to college. Apparently, I failed to mention my plan to Amy, even though we spent days driving from Des Moines to Boston. Not a lot of days, but we were in the same car, heading east, for quite awhile.


She was a teen-ager and I was the mom, so, you know—

Hence, when Amy flew back home for that first Thanksgiving break, she walked in the front door, said, “Hi,” to the family, petted the dog and headed straight upstairs to drop off her suitcase in her room. (Okay, in what she still thought was her room.) We could tell by her comments (easily heard in the living room) that the fluorescent ceiling lights surprised her. As did the absence of a bed, dresser, nightstand and posters of singing groups I’d never heard of.


It’s an office, right?” she said when she finally came back downstairs.


The new digs didn’t make me a better author, but they made me feel like a real one. My very first “office” was actually my bedroom. When I started high school (in the last century), my parents bought a desk and chair that sort of fit into my bedroom. Lord love a duck, they truly believed having my own desk and chair would cause me to study.


Eventually—as in after college, a career, marriage and babies—the desk and chair found their way to the basement playroom in our house. (This is what writer-mothers should expect if they have three babies in four years.) When our kids trotted off to school, I created a private office between the furnace and a wall of storage cabinets. Then, when Amy headed East, I bought real office furniture and commandeered her second-floor room with a view—a linden tree on the left, a sunburst locust on the right and flower gardens beyond.


It’s okay to spend a little time being happy for me.


So this is where you’ll find me—especially you people who are readers, or writers, or readers & writers. Send me an email, connect with me on Facebook or sign-up for my monthly e-newsletter, Words & Other Worthy Endeavors. It’s free, although the quality of Words is so stupendous that you’ll wonder why you don’t have to pay for it.


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