You're in the study.

Soft carpet muffles your feet. A warm, plush chair sits in the nook of bay windows opening onto the front lawn, tree branches dappling the light. Tall bookshelves line the walls, bookmarks sticking out at random from stacks of books. A broad desk is the centerpoint of the room. It's a disaster zone, books and notebooks in haphazard stacks, pens, scissors, sticks of gum, loose wired headphones, and a dangerously-placed candle. You see a piece of paper sitting on the desk, and a file cabinet with stacks of notebooks.

This is where my writing lives.