Physically, whenever I sit down to write, it can happen everywhere. In my mind though, “author me” is always alone in a study, behind a heavy oak desk, surrounded by bookcases filled to the brim with books. Of course the study has a large window, overlooking an imaginary lake. It’s been some time now since I’ve last been there; “author me” has been out of sorts for a while. Moments after I settle, she walks in; I don’t even need to look up to know it’s her. I’ve spent so much time figuring her out, how she moves, how she talks, how she thinks; of course I know it's her. “Long time no