Manuscripts of upcoming books perch precariously on an antique oak desk. A black 1932 telephone sits silently on the corner. A red art deco lamp on the other. Ancient artifacts, jeweled dagger, .32 revolver, tattered books on witchcraft, all implements of my stories' antagonists line the shelves. This is my sanctuary. The place I go to write, each evening, alone, long after dark.
Twelve o'clock, the witching hour when my time finally becomes my own. When others are fast asleep, darkness and silence overtake my home except for one room. The room in which I write, steadily, every night, sometimes until dawn.
No distractions but the whispers from the corners of my imagination which are tapped onto the keyboard, click, click, click. And the creak and groan of the house, water dripping from a faucet. No one to disturb me except whoever, whatever watches silently in the dark.
Creativity is putting your imagination to work, and it's produced the most extraordinary results in human culture.