I'm at my desk before nine, and I go all day. I'm not necessarily productive all day, but really, who is?
My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
My favourite part of writing a book is thinking up the ideas, and that can start a long time before I actually sit down at my desk.
These tapes have been found, which were taken from the desk and various bootlegs. At the time we never got to hear them, they didn't seem to be available or they just got put to one side.
On my desk, I always have a lemon or a lime drying. I love the fragrance. Also, a Staedtler eraser, a brush for the eraser and a pencil sharpener.
In this world where I sit at my desk writing these words, people die, they pass on, people are mortal. In the cyber world we inhabit they do not.
When somebody was looking in my locker, it was like going in my desk. Somebody happened to be looking in my locker when they shouldn't have been.
When the door to my writing chamber gasps shut and the almost imperceptible sigh of a rose petal falls on my desk, I know that my muse is present.
If I were governor, and a bill came to my desk that provided for background checks at gun shows, I would sign that.
The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him.
I never really have to sit at a desk thinking, 'What should I do now?' It doesn't work like that for me, and it never has. My thinking process is constant.
Two uniformed trolls were standing in front of Sergeant Colon's high desk, with a slightly smaller troll between them. This troll was wearing a slightly downcast expression. It was also wearing a tutu and had a small pair of gauzed wings glued to its...
On a Wednesday morning in mid-June, Eli Sharpe was sitting at his desk treating jetlag with strong coffee when he heard a knock on his apartment door. After a second, more insistent knock, he added a dash of George Dickel to his Folgers and hid the p...
It’s finger time!” Steve simply grunted. Li responded like she always had to the request over the past years, by walking over to the tall oak cabinet in his office and pulling out a pack of Vienna Fingers. She then closed the door and walked arou...
Professor Moody: Let's have another curse. C'mon, c'mon. [Neville's hand slowly goes up, and Moody calls on him] Professor Moody: Longbottom, isn't it? Professor Sprout tells me you have an aptitude for Herbology. Neville: Th-there's um... the Crucia...
Dad was at his desk when I opened the door, doing what all British people do when they're freaked out: drinking tea.
He leaned heavily on the desk now, as if danger had strengthened him before and its lack now made him weak.
As a composer and as a musician I'm a true believer - and this is not to be overly diplomatic - I'm a believer that there's artistry in everything from a lawn gnome to a desk chair to a symphony to an Andy Warhol painting. There's art in absolutely e...
Seattle? With Caine? In a hotel? I’d either kill him or screw him again. “Fuck.” “Alexa, the speakerphone is on,” Caine’s amused voice sounded from my desk. Oh, balls.
In the office, Michael sat behind our father’s desk, clicking away at the computer with his right hand, and making notes with his left. Ambidextrous freak.
The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth's dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.
