A lot of comments, both here and elsewhere, about why authors blog, and who reads the blogs, and who cares, and why they do...indicate that many readers of authors blogs do so simply to get a glimpse into the day-to-day mundane life of someone whose work they like. This would be my reason, if I had time for blog-reading, I think. It's the same reason I used to love (until they became extinct, or obsolete) volumes of collected letters of writers. The best: Flannery O'Connor's, E.B. White's, and a few others whose names are eluding me at the moment. Oh yes, May Sarton's, for one. And Louise Bogan's.
A number of years ago, someone published a book of photos of writers' spaces. I loved poring over it, practically with a magnifying glass---looking at what kind of cigarettes they smoked (there was often a crumpled pack visible); what the view from their window was; what sort of pens were lying on the desk; if there were framed photos---of whom? All of that. Prurient curiosity of the most shallow sort.
Once, when I was to speak on a panel with a bunch of other writers--and the topic was left to us, and we were all desperately trying to think of one---I suggested that we each simply describe our work space, or a desk, and talk about a few objects that were important.
But I got vetoed. No one else liked the idea, and I think we ended up talking about how we get our ideas, which in my opinion is unanswerable and a huge yawn.
Anyway, today, thinking about this, I took a snapshot of my desk (above) and then realized what a MESS it is. Sometimes I clean it up but then it just reverts very quickly to its previous state.
Here are some things in the photo: