I don’t write every day. I wish I could, but some days other parts of life just get in the way – like paying bills and going to the grocery store and doing errands. When I do write, however, I usually do it in this little nook in our bedroom. (And, yes, our cat, Cinnamon, is a great assistant.) The windows make the area bright and there’s also a French door, just out of the frame, which opens to the back yard. I’ve written two books, mostly while sitting on this banquette, although I’ve definitely logged some hours while traveling as well. Once in a while I’ll take my laptop into the kitchen and write in there – it’s also a sunny space – or I’ll leave the house altogether and find a place to write outside. Anything to keep my brain going.

When I was a child and I found myself in a museum, I’d start fantasizing about walking into the paintings, as the characters in Mary Poppins did when they jumped into the sidewalk art that Bert, the Chimney Sweep, created. I didn’t want to be with dancing penguins and galloping carousel horses, though. I wanted to walk beside the purple irises in Monet’s garden at Giverny or climb the red mountain peaks Paul Gauguin painted in his Tahitian landscapes.

Maybe this wish to immerse myself in a painting is what led me to fall in love with writing and photography, because the act of writing about or photographing something does, in a way, let you walk into a picture – you’re capturing that scene on your own terms.

Photography is only a hobby for me, but it’s a serious one. Since the age of six, I’ve had one camera or another in my hands, from the simplest of Kodaks to the string of Nikons that’s carried me through my adult