Writing in Place is a column in which authors published in our print and web pages tell us about their writing spaces.
I write in a glass-sided room, an addition to a 1950s brick bungalow, southern style. From the threshold that once led to the outdoors, it’s just one giant stride to my desk: space enough to tap at a keyboard, or lie down; for books and papers to breed, but not for dancing (a tiny tango when someone says yes).The door opens with a ghastly sucking. Then I’m in, most mornings greeted by some spirit helper jumping for cover—kukulcania hibernalis, tiny crevice weaver, or zygoballus sexpunctatus, trapdoor spider. Sometimes, it’s the cockroach, unholy scarab, too parched to outrun the descending whomp of the Gladware, the fatal thwop of the vacuum.