I have a thing about where I write. I'm always seeking the perfect table, the one with just the right surface and height, lighting, view, and surroundings to draw out the muse and inspire her to play. I'm the same way about pens and paper - I like laying out first drafts by hand - and make a ritual of buying a new pen every time I begin a new book.
I realize it's silly, and experience has taught me that I can write in pretty much any conditions. Once you do it for a living, you don't have the luxury of choosing when and where to have your pretty little word tea party.
But I have a particular thing for hotel room desks. They're usually so dreary, so poorly conceived and pathetically placed, that when I find one with the right window and the right surface and a chair that doesn't require at least two pillows to bring me to the proper height, I could stay there all day. It's a blank slate, totally devoid of distraction, and it makes me feel like anything is possible.
Which is why I shall remain happily perched here, 33 floors above the honking bustle of midtown Manhattan, for just a little while longer.