The Perfect Work Area
Most writers have a spot where they feel comfortable writing their stories. For each writer it’s different. I’m going to tell you about the spot I write in. For me, the ideal spot would be on the beach somewhere. I think that would be the most inspirational place for me. But, since I don’t live near the beach, let alone any body of water, I write inside in the air conditioner (or heat in the winter).
Upstairs in my bedroom there is a fairly large desk. It holds copies of each book I have ever written.
I have beautiful angel statues on my desk. I like to think the angels guide me in my writing.
I have a plaque on my desk that reads “Life is not measured by the number of breaths that you take, but by the moments that take your breath away”. I try to put these moments in each of my stories.
Statues of knight figurines and a 13th century key (it’s cool because it is from the medieval era) line my desk. They are there just for inspiration.
All kinds of journals are stacked on a shelf to the side of my desk. I like to have these when I go out. I bring a journal in case inspiration strikes.
Near my feet on a shelf is a row of books that I occasionally use when I write – from baby name books to Heroes and Heroines by Tami Cowden, Caro LaFever, and Sue Viders.
Prominently displayed on top of my desk is the computer screen and keyboard (the computer itself is tucked away below the desk).
That is where I write. A few inspirational items. A few fun items, but mostly it is for creating. Now, if I had to, I could write anywhere. I’d rather do that then not write at all. I am, after all, a writer.
Laurel O'Donnell - Author - Medieval Romance Novels, Paranormal Romance Novels and Urban Fantasy
Laurel O'Donnell's Blog
“What do you want from me?”
Perhaps it was ridiculous, Ryen thought. Men never seemed to have a problem with taking what, Here's an excerpt from my novel, The Angel and the Prince - Enemies face off -
“What do you want from me?”
Perhaps it was ridiculous, Ryen thought. Men never seemed to have a problem with taking what, or who, they wanted. Maybe I’m making it more complicated than it should be. He is my prisoner.
She raised a hand to touch his thick mane. Bryce pulled back instantly. Ryen wrapped her fingers tightly in his hair, leaning into his strong chest. “You fear my touch?” she wondered in a soft whisper.
“Loathe is more like it,” he said.
She could feel the lie through his leggings and smiled. “Your body betrays you.”
“Step away from me, witch,” he snarled.
Ryen stood on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips against his. At first they were immovable, but suddenly they parted and the hot passion he was trying to hide was released. His tongue slipped into her mouth, warring with hers.
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