I actually DO have an office down in the basement that I spent weeks painting, decorating and organizing. Which I now never set foot in because it represents, well, WORK. The work of work. Not the writing, that's the fun bit. But the book-keeping: Taxes! Receipts! Sorting out pieces of paper! Files! Help! Help!
I never go into my office. Not my real one. I'm secretly hoping that my stepson will soon decide that he wants the basement room as his bedroom and I can second his bedroom as my much brighter, lighter, CLOSER office. Is downstairs too far? No. I don't know what it is. I think that it's just not comfortable. There is a desk with a proper, grown up chair but then there is also a desktop computer that takes up all the space. There is a window, but it faces the pile of stuff I need to clean out of the sideyard. If I face the other way, I see piles of books that need sorting and purging.
Truth. This is where I work:
There's something about writing fiction that demands comfort, no? I lean against all my pillows and type my dream worlds. So a bed makes sense.
And I never fall asleep while I'm working. At least, not very often.