I write in a small rented room in a sandstone building perched at the edge of Sydney’s harbour. It’s a little dingy and damp and being a converted pub it’s probably riddled with ghosts but to me it’s a haven. After writing my first novel in fits and starts at the kitchen table, it feels like a real luxury to have my own space outside of the home. This is all the more important when I remember that I’m the kind of person who can find folding laundry or trawling the entire internet to be sudden and urgent business when the words aren’t flowing. My room is quiet and private and, most importantly, there are no little people to rifle through my papers or smear my laptop with their sticky fingers or accidentally delete my Word documents. You can see my oh-so-sophisticated plotting method laid out on the floor beside the desk and a few reference books laid open at pertinent pages for inspiration and research. I guess I’d describe my style as ‘messily creative’.