I have an awesome desk, designed specifically for me with tons of my own input in what I wanted, and custom-built to fit my space. It’s huge, takes up half my office. It’s shaped like three sides of a rectangle with an open end, so I can simply roll up and down inside the rectangle and reach everything I need without getting up. It has two built-in file cabinet drawers on each end, as well as built-in shelves on both the outside and inside of the desk sides, with a reference book shelf and stereo cabinet mounted on the wall to my right. And it’s extremely deep because... well, one of my cats sleeps behind my computer monitor and she needs the extra space. She has a nice little bed there—a towel. Maisey prefers this spot because it’s warm, tucked back behind all my equipment. Cecil, on the other hand, likes the Longaberger basket on the end of my desk. If you’re aware of the collectible appeal and cost of Longaberger baskets, you might think this is a bit over-indulgent for a mere feline. But Cecil begs to differ with you. He thinks Longaberger fits him just fine. 

Truth is, I don’t use my desk as much as my cats do. I write my novels sitting in an old recliner chair next to my desk, using my laptop. Why? It’s more comfortable. Or maybe it’s simply a sloppy habit. But the odd thing is, when I put on my nonfiction hat, it’s back to my desk, push the cats aside (but not too far). None of that kicking back in the recliner for the nonfiction part of me. 

The thing I like most about my office? It’s a real office. Hip-hip-hurray! I’ve worked in the guest bedroom, in the family room, at the kitchen table, in the corner of one of the kid’s rooms, in the garage, in the laundry room, on the picnic table on the deck in the back yard. I’ve even shut myself up in the car and locked the doors so I can have some uninterrupted moments. Now, having my own, dedicated space is a dream come true. It’s where I can shut the door and shut out the world (except for the cats) and that turns my work time into an unbelievable joy.

Every writer needs an office! It’s an escape, a retreat, an oasis, a paradise, a place to dwell in the world you’re creating. And what do I like most about my desk? Everything! Even the clutter. But most of all, the cats. 

In the winter of 1822, on Christmas Eve, a man by the name of Moore took his large family out for a sleigh ride in Greenwich Village. During the ride, he couldn't take his eyes off the roly-poly Dutchman who drove the sleigh. When he arrived home, he sat down at his desk and penned a little poem he thought his kids would enjoy. He called it, "A Visit from St. Nicholas." 

It was a big hit in the family. But Moore, a dour straitlaced academe, refused to have the poem published despite its enthusiastic reception. He argued that he, who had published books of poetry, compiled a two-volume lexicon of the Hebrew language and translated Roman Juvenal's works into English, could not possibly stoop so low as to have this silly thing attributed to him.

One day, a young relative copied the poem in her diary, took it home and showed it to her father. He in turn sent it to a newspaper in Troy, New York, and the paper published it. Other newspapers quickly pounced on the jewel, and soon readers all across the nation were clipping, saving and even framing the classic tale. Despite its overnight success, however, Moore still refused to openly admit he wrote it. That came 26 years later when he reluctantly included it in a volume of collected works. He referred to the poem as "a mere trifle."

This mere trifle, better known as 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, has become a holiday classic. And the only work anyone remembers from Professor Clement C. Moore.