Where I Write

If I recall, back when Roger, in collaboration with his cat and coffeepot, was posting his first videos on the writers life, someone (possibly the estimable MFW Curran) suggested we show our workspaces. That brings up, as we say here on the West Coast, a lot of "intimacy issues" for me, but nonetheless I'm going to take a deep breath and Show All.

This is my primary workspace--where I do most of my consulting work, fiddle about on the internet, and answer my e-mail. In a normal household, this room would be the dining room. But we have never done anything so formal as to dine, so in our house it has been converted to a home office.


Sort of a mess, isn't it? Note the "Black Shelf," which is filled with the MNW novels. And, as of Testament, it's now full, too. Aliya starts a new shelf. Somewhere.

Note also that my view is of the corner of the room. I can't be trusted with a window; I won't get a damn thing done if physical reality has any chance to tamper with my monkey-like brain.

I write some fiction here, but not often. That's because I share this space with Pamela, whose chair is directly behind mine. And she's often on the phone, and that's sometimes a bit distracting. (At the moment, for instance, she's actually threatening someone. And it's about time, too, I say.) And, since I mumble and mutter and twitch while I write fiction, she probably wouldn't want me writing behind her anyway. Here's Pamela's desk:


She has another real desk in a real office, but this is where she does most of her work. You will also note that she is even sloppier than I am, and piles things on the floor. This is, I find, a key to harmony between boys and girls: always find a girl just slightly sloppier than you. It avoids a lot of recrimination.

But most of the time when I'm writing fiction, I'm doing it in the guest room upstairs:


This is slightly less sloppy than my desk downstairs. It's main drawback is that sometimes, as the name suggests, there are, um, guests in it. And that really puts a crimp in the whole thing.

We keep our coffeepot in the kitchen, and it refuses to offer suggestions of any original prose. We have no cat, although we have two birds, but their contribution is limited to hammering their beaks on the desk (apparently imitating the act of typing--I think they are under the impression I'm pecking at something edible).

There it is. Pretty dull, really. But now you all seem morally obligated to Show Yours.

And see if you can get Faye Booth to re-post hers from long ago. She has what appears to be an Edgar Allen Poe action figure, as well as a wealth of other inscrutable items. Now that's how a writer's desk ought to look.