What was I thinking? Where did I get the romantic notion about the writer’s life? Years ago, in my mind’s eye I saw an author seated in a leather office chair at her mahogany desk. Surrounded on two sides by floor to ceiling bookcases, she fashioned prose from her private room where nothing interfered with the creative flow, which came to her almost vicariously. After writing two books, I can tell you this—I was deluded. My idea of an author’s life was as far fetched as they