I write from home. There's no economically justifiable reason to have an off-site office, but I know more than a few authors who would give a testicle for one. Me? I'd settle for a desk.

My "office" is stashed in a corner of my bedroom. I've lined it with three folding T.V. trays my mother purchased at Target. Upon my T.V. trays, which I like to call my "desk," I have reference books, a laptop, a printer, a file box, one wedding photo, a stuffed rabbit, various office supplies, plus some hand lotion and - well, let's just say there are a number of Dr Pepper cans at the moment.

Under the folding trays are more filing boxes and - this is a new addition - my very own trash can. And by "trash can," I mean a round basket I salvaged from the Dumpster. Don't laugh. I've wanted my own trash can for years. I just couldn't find a spot for it.

The walls are covered with enough sticky notes to repopulate a rainforest. There's a calendar and a corkboard covered in everything from a hand-drawn map of downtown L.A. to a Paris Metro ticket. On the corners of the board, I've hung about a dozen running medals, the weight of which is threatening to topple the whole thing.

I also have a lamp, but I couldn't fit it on the "desk." So it's perched on my headboard and angled in a general desk-like direction.

My chair is one that belongs to my dining room table set, which I inherited from my great aunt Ruth. I've used it so long the seat cushion no longer has the molecular structure of a seat cushion and has had to be supplemented with a folded up throw blanket. It's not the proper height for the trays, so I sit hunched over all day like Quasimodo. I've attempted to delay spinal damage with the addition of a decorative pillow that's supposed to live on my bed. It's only moderately helpful. I do, fortunately, have a place to plug in a heating pad.

I've lived this way for five years. Written five novels and innumerable short stories and blog posts in this cramped space. It's possible. I proved it. I've even heard a rumor Stephen King wrote on a children's desk he kept balanced on his knees before the big checks started coming.

But seriously?

I'd sell crack to small children if it got me a filing cabinet and an honest-to-goodness desk chair.