Forgive me if there are any typos in this post. I slammed a door on one of my fingers in the middle of the night (middle finger, left hand, if you're interested). I was trying to halt a ninja cat invasion of my bedroom. The mission was successful, but the finger was collateral damage. Big ouch. I'll do my best to soldier on though, like a brave little... er... soldier.
One day I will write in a big white room at the top of a house. There will be no neighbours. The room will have huge windows overlooking the sea. There will be a big desk facing the window, and a ridiculously comfortable and perfectly ergonomic chair. To the right of the desk will be a whiteboard-clad wall scrawled with notes from the latest WIP. There might be the odd post-it stuck on there too. In this place I will be the writer I've always wanted to be: inspired, relaxed, organized and not plagued by RSI.
Now I write in a medium-sized room in a top floor flat. There are neighbours - noisy ones too. The room has a small window overlooking an estate. There is a sofa and a laptop. There is an notebook with scrawled notes from the WIP - a notebook I ALWAYS forget to look at. In this place I am the writer I am now: vaguely irritated by my neighbours, kind of uncomfortable, but pootling along just fine all the same.
The truth is, it doesn't really matter where you write, as long as you actually WRITE.
(Still, one day that Dream Room will be mine. Oh yes indeedy.)