Rarely are there perfect conditions for anything, let alone writing. Right now I'm in Montana dealing with the final copy-edited essays for the anthology CHERISHED and I'm working in a small home office that in theory is perfect. Cosy with a ten foot desk where R. and I both have space, book shelves, and a large chair – with a view of the horse pasture. And it is perfect unless two people are working in it with drop-in people for meetings about cattle or R. is on his speaker phone. Not to mention all the tech stuff on the desk – computers, fax, printer, and multiple gadgets I can't figure out, plus reams of paper and files and a dangling thing overhead that was created by granddaughters two summers ago. 

I have to admit all of this kvetching is simply to avoid having to figure out how to send the essays to their authors so the files can be opened.