People are sometimes curious about where a writer writes.
I can only comment on my own case. The geographic location of my efforts when I wrote Where Pademelons Play was primarily an old battered bamboo chaise on the north-facing veranda of my home on the coast of Central Queensland. Janet, my life partner, thinks this chaise is beyond its use-by date, and has bought me a couple of modern ones, out of hardwood and metal respectively. They lie there unused. I prefer my old dilapidated bamboo job.
So I lie back, laptop in lap, in this, my bower. I am overhung by a dense tangle of greenery that frequently sends out invasive feelers shrieking to be cut back. The constant and varied bird noises make me wonder if I am perhaps in an aviary. I am invisible here from the world, the street, and even from most parts of the house. I am alone here with nature and my thoughts.
Not all my writing happens here. But most does. I take my laptop with me when I travel, and have written parts of Where Pademelons Play in places like Perth, Melbourne, and Brisbane, where I have tried, mostly in vain, to find replicas of my bower. I am always happy to get home again, so I can write reclining on a bamboo frame held together by string.
Now I have a question for you, my presumed reader. Do you think the unique features of my preferred writing location are in any way reflected in my writing?