I spend a great deal of time in my office, a little jewel box of a room with pumpkin spiced walls and a six-foot Terracotta Warrior, who always sports sunglasses this time of year. Over my desk hangs a hand tooled leather map I carried in my hands all the way from a South American street market, and a photograph of my boys, Chase and Porter, their young faces looking out through the eyes of Zeus. Naturally, the photo was taken by my daughter, Abby, only she could have captured them so astutely.

To my right hangs a painting of Hagoth, Builder of Ships, the cover of a game we once produced, and under that a map of our home section of Suzhou, China, laser-cut by my brother-in-law onto wood from one of the packing crates used to ship our belongings to the United States after I was diagnosed with cancer. Beyond the closet door hangs a painting from the Temple of Faces at Siem Reap, Cambodia, all moody greens and vibrant oranges. I like to look at it from the battered brown leather sofa, as I curl up in the big, cozy minky blanket I sewed myself. It’s the same sofa where I sat to revise my novel. It needed much revision because I had written the whole first draft in longhand, always carrying a notebook to hastily scribble in as I waited at my kids’ swimming lessons, or in the school pickup line, recording scenes worked out as I folded laundry or washed dishes. I remember I had to write very fast, before my brain recalled that I was too scared and stupid to do this, and better stop. The final product was never actually finished, just abandoned, and now I look back in frustration at all I would change.

Under the orange and green Temple of Faces sits a small antique mahogany rocking chair that no one sits in because it’s usually covered with materials for my current project. To the right of the window hangs a chaotic and cacophonous painting of Hong Kong, oranges, reds and greens, that cost me almost nothing at 1:00 a.m. in the Hong Kong night market. It would be less than worthless at Christie’s Auction House, in fact, there’s no point robbing my home because none of my artwork is “worth a doodle” as my grandma used to say, but it’s worth at least a doodle.5 to me.

Against the last wall is a bookcase with a few fancyish books, but mostly loaded with photo albums and favorite board games, not to be confused with the horde of books and giant stash of games in the basement. Atop the bookcase is an inlaid world globe, a mounted piranha, a preserved stingray, a Brazilian quartz obelisk, and a beautiful ceramic and mother of pearl mask, a gift brought to me from Ecuador by a dear friend who had returned from adopting a daughter. Read More