Every writer has a special place where they rendezvous with their muse. Some find inspiration by writing at their favorite coffee bistro. Some may seek it under a shady tree in the park, surrounded by nature’s glory. Others might opt for the comfort of their bed, where they can sit cross-legged with their keyboards and pound out sultry tales while nibbling on bon-bons and sipping hot cocoa.

My own creative space is a spare bedroom in my house that I converted into a home office. When people visit, they often mistake it for Fred Sanford’s junk yard, but everything in there has a purpose. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I have an old desk that’s been in my family for years, with several stacks of papers that I know were important once upon a time. The walls around it are adorned with posters from some of my favorite movies, along with awards I’ve won and obscure artwork that I found interesting.

There’s a bookcase filled with old paperbacks I’ve had for years but just can’t part with. They include the complete works of Mickey Spillane, Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, among others. I have reference books, such as The KISS Guide to the Kama Sutra, an English-to-Spanish dictionary, Roget’s Thesaurus, and Romance Writing for Dummies. I didn’t say I had all the answers. There’s also a dog-eared copy of The Godfather that I’ve read so many times, the pages are falling out.

Research is important when you write atmospheric thrillers set in exotic locations, and I strive for accuracy. To that end, I have a credenza where office supplies share space with things I’ve brought back from my travels. These include photo albums, maps, tourist brochures, and copies of local newspapers. I often refer to these things when I’m trying to set a mood or accurately describe a location. When I’m writing about a sunset over the Florida Bay, it helps to look at some of the pics I took for inspiration. The maps and brochures are invaluable when I want to feature a landmark, but can’t remember where it’s located or exactly what it looks like.

Earlier, I mentioned my collection of paperbacks. A few years ago, I found some at a yard sale that were written in the early 1960’s. These were the ones you’d find on a rack in the drug store that sold for 25 or 50 cents. Can you imagine the royalties on a book that goes for half a buck? No wonder the writers were called starving artists! I read a few of these steamy potboilers to get a sense of what people were into back then, when censorship was still holding sway. The titles alone were enough to push boundaries. They include such classics as Station Wagon Wives, Nude in the Mirror, Nude in the Sand (probably a sequel), Suburban Sin, Strip the Town Naked, and The Lady is a Lush. That last one sounds like a Sinatra tune.

And the tag lines they used to entice readers! Get a load of these:

“The shocking portrait of a pretty wife who fell victim to the soft and corrupt passions of another woman.”

“She showed men the way—the wrong way!”

“A novel of women who trade husbands, of men who borrow wives!”

“The full, terrifying story of a woman trapped by the desperate demands of her body.”

“A man, a woman, and a bottle. John and Mary sought escape through alcohol and sexual excesses.”

“Sex and savagery in the advertising jungle.”

“They knew each other’s bodies—but not each other’s names!”

Most of these books would be considered politically incorrect today, and I’m not advocating for a return to this type of storytelling. If there was a woman’s point of view in any of them, I missed it. These were clearly written for the suburban Martini crowd, the folks who populate old Rat Pack movies and episodes of Mad Men. I doubt that Harriet Nelson read any of these, but Ozzie may have perused a chapter or two while she was at the PTA meetings.

So…what’s in your playpen?