Attention has been pointed, this afternoon, towards this gallery of SF authors and their writing spaces. Personal favourites include Andre Norton’s Great Wall of Quiff and a pic way down the bottom, where Arthur C. Clarke has pushed a Sri Lankan rentboy off his lap to make room for a monkey.

I’ll readily admit to being a complete geek for this sort of thing: artists and their artistic processes fascinate me, and I’m often as keen to learn about the story behind the creative process as I am to experience the end product. Writers, in particular, are a source of anthropological fascination: I devour author biographies and am in a constant search to find whatever it was that made each particular author so memorable and me so…. well, lot of weather we’re having, innit?

Anyway, in the spirit of full disclosure and acting like famous artists in the hope that it’ll rub off, I present my own writing space. Well, spaces. Well, space and writing.

The Battdesk, hard at work in the entire room we set aside as writing space, office and reading room. Keen-eyed viewers will note such essential items as the lantern and hand-spreader. 
My actual writing space, at the kitchen table. I’m seated behind Luscious Lyn’s laptop, as mine is currently attached to the TV so we can watch some stuff on the hard drive. As Hemingwayish as the wine glass looks, it’s stored nothing more exciting than Pepsi: I managed to break our last drinking glass this morning. That’s how exotic and windswept we are around these parts, my friends. Mandurah exotic.