I've always been fascinated by the look of a writer's office. Emerson's was plain and well-organized, with plenty of shelf space. Sandberg's was a whole house--a veritable library filling every nook and crannie, with thousands of books piled high on every available ledge and floorboard. And Ray Bradbury wrote in a basement office on an old manual typewriter--his library pressing in from all sides, nearly crushing him in his tiny writer's space.
Me? Well, I, sir, am no John Kennedy. In fact, I ain't even listed in the white pages. People can look for me under a rock and they won't find me. And when it comes to literary light, I can sum up my life in the words of one of my publishers: "Never heard of you, pal!" And this guy had actually published one of my books! Imagine what this publisher might have said to me if I were a complete stranger?
So . . . here's a glimpse into my writing lair. (PHOTO: Right) One-third of my library.
(PHOTO: Below) My writing desk with "Old Sparky" . . . my 15-year-old Compaq computer with floppy drive which can (and does) often burst into flame while I am writing. (I'm not joking . . . and the sucker still works. Which tells you a lot about the quality of the computers they used to make and the quality of the crap they make today.)
(PHOTO: Below) One of my filing cabinets filled with manuscripts, book contracts, sales reports, and all manner of dipsy-doodle vestiges of the writing life, including thousands of rejections slips and letters from irate readers demanding their money back.
Look closely at these photos. Do you see the tear stains on the woodwork?
Me? Well, I, sir, am no John Kennedy. In fact, I ain't even listed in the white pages. People can look for me under a rock and they won't find me. And when it comes to literary light, I can sum up my life in the words of one of my publishers: "Never heard of you, pal!" And this guy had actually published one of my books! Imagine what this publisher might have said to me if I were a complete stranger?
(PHOTO: Below) My writing desk with "Old Sparky" . . . my 15-year-old Compaq computer with floppy drive which can (and does) often burst into flame while I am writing. (I'm not joking . . . and the sucker still works. Which tells you a lot about the quality of the computers they used to make and the quality of the crap they make today.)
(PHOTO: Below) One of my filing cabinets filled with manuscripts, book contracts, sales reports, and all manner of dipsy-doodle vestiges of the writing life, including thousands of rejections slips and letters from irate readers demanding their money back.
Look closely at these photos. Do you see the tear stains on the woodwork?
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