The so-called “writing life” is basically sitting on your ass.
You have to have a place, but it can be anywhere, really. You have to have some time, but it can be anytime. Early this summer, while my wife and son were doing a joint reading at the public library in Portland, Maine, I got stuck with dog-duty. Our dog is Frodo, a plump and cheerful Welsh Corgi. He makes no trouble. I took him to Deering Oaks Park, found a bench in the shade and wrote four good pages on my new novel in the notebook I carry around. Frodo kept an eye on the ducks. Those four pages weren’t perfect — far from it — but they were words on paper, and they marched.
Stephen King. “The Writing Life.” The Washington Post. Sunday, October 1, 2006.