Ah, awards! The delightfully modest, prodigiously talented, and many-starred Leslie Connor has just received the Schneider Family Book Award for Waiting for Normal (Katherine Tegen Books, a division of HarperCollins, 2008). As the Schneider website states, the award “honors an author or illustrator for the artistic expression of the disability experience for children and teens,” for which Waiting for Normal won in the Middle Grade category. Leslie’s other work includes the picture book Miss Bridie Chose a Shovel, illustrated by Mary Azarian (Houghton Mifflin, 2004), and a forthcoming novel (about which she is fairly secretive). So where exactly, we want to know, does her writing take place? What are her surroundings, her tools, her “things?” She shares, thus:

My work space

I wish I had an idyllic little writing studio to tell you about. But I don’t. I have a small house with an open floor plan shared by five people and two big dogs. It’s bright and airy and busy and public and not conducive to the work of writing at all.

So I escape to the screen porch—the room outdoors. I’m pretty hard core about it. I’ll do rain. I’ll do temperatures in the nineties with a fan blowing. I’ll do fifty-five degrees with my legs tucked into a sleeping bag. But eventually, winter comes. Every year.

The chair in front of the wood stove is inviting, but the dogs would rather I fold myself onto the wide couch where they can flank me and disable my elbows with their loving chins. I like that. And the house is my own during the day…well it was, until a month ago when my Better Half switched to a job on second shift. Now he’s here during my hours. He stamps snow off his boots at the door. He carries in armloads of firewood, which he deposits on the floor next to the stove with paragraph-busting thuds. I have to leave. So, I’ve discovered an armchair in the local library, where I look down—but only every once in a while—on a frosted garden where several cats come running to greet a little blue car every time it pulls in.

In short, I find places to work.

If there’s anything remarkable to tell here, it has to do with flexibility. But that isn’t so much about this writer as it is about the thing that makes it possible. I’m talking about my laptop. I know what you’re thinking. Ick. She’s about to wax poetic about a plastic box full of wires and whatsits. But the way I see it, this handsome little case replaces the room I cannot have at home. It snaps shut to protect itself from dog toenails when I get up to refresh my cup of tea. My laptop packs up and travels without whining.

Still need an aesthetic? Okay. Every time I lift the lid on this impossibly capable little machine, I am reminded of two favorite childhood possessions. One is a jewelry box with a brass hasp on the outside and a dancing ballerina on the inside. The other is a paint set with shiny enamel trays filled with rows of colored tablets. When I open my laptop, I am aware of the hinge—that satisfying resistance—and the sense that I’m about to be occupied. Possibly for hours. Something will turn and spin and sing here. Colors will spill. A picture will emerge. A drama will unfold. Then I am absurdly grateful to be able to shut the lid and carry it all with me to the next quiet writing place.

Wendy Mass is the multi-starred and well-reviewed author of a number of funny and clever middle grade and YA novels, including A Mango-Shaped Space (2005), Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life and Heaven Looks a Lot Like the Mall (2007), 2008’s Every Soul A Star (all Little, Brown), and the brand new 11 Birthdays (Scholastic).

The Friday Book Report recently asked Wendy to take us on a word tour of the writing space in her New Jersey home. Suivez le guide!

When my house is overrun by toddlers, I escape to the corner of my public library or to a picnic table at the nearby lake. Otherwise, my haven away from the madness is a room in my house that I sometimes call “my office” and sometimes call “a storage room” because my family has a lovely habit of tossing in everything they can’t find a place for someplace else. I’ll only have it for a few more years until one of the aforementioned toddlers turns it into a bedroom and then I’ll be knocking on Tony Abbott’s door offering homemade brownies in exchange for writing space. Oh who am I kidding, I can’t bake homemade anything. I’ll just have to get by on my charming personality.

So, my office. A desk that overlooks the driveway, and beyond the driveway, the lake. On the wall to my right is a very heavy ceramic tile that says Don’t Piss Off the Fairies. I’m sure one day it will cause considerable brain damage as it slips from its moorings. To my left is a framed poster of the Newbery Medal-winning books from the beginning in 1922 (The Story of Mankind) until 1997 (The View from Saturday). It was my first Ebay purchase (but certainly not my last). Just recently, seemingly out of the blue, the glass in the frame shattered. I don’t think that is a good omen for the trajectory of my career.

On the wall behind me is an illustrated poster of The Gashleycrumb Tinies by master of the macabre Edward Gorey. I’ve had this poster since high school (well, not this same one, I’ve replaced it many times). It’s an alphabetical rhyme of little British children reaching unfortunate ends. A is for Amy who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil assaulted by bears, C is for Clara who wasted away, D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh. You get the idea. I started my first novel, A Mango-Shaped Space, with the first line from the poster. Now that I think of it, having a poster like that is sort of at odds with the whole striving to inspire and empower young readers thing. Which I guess brings me to my next item—the postcard stuck on the side of my filing cabinet which reads: Masquerading as a Normal Person Day after Day is Exhausting.

Under the poster is a shelf with copies of my books on it so when I start freaking out about a deadline (which is often/always), I can remind myself that somehow I did it before. The rest of the shelves are full of reference books for whatever book I’m currently working on, and novels that I won’t get enough time to read for another ten or twenty years. Other than that, there’s a cabinet that looks like an old card catalog from the library, but actually houses CDs. Then there’s the usual piles of random paper and candy wrappers, a clock with the characters from Alice in Wonderland at 12, 3, 6, and 9, and a bumper sticker that cautions Don’t Postpone Joy.

And if I forget to close the door when I leave, a little gray cat will sneak in, curl up on my keyboard, and erase everything I’ve just written.

This has been some week. The Scottsdale (AZ) Public Library, and the Friends of, hosted a visit to third, fourth, and fifth graders in eight elementary schools over four days. I can’t imagine a better introduction to this city of palm trees and Hockney skies. The kids were fabulous — inspired, imaginative, friendly, clever, and as lovely as the weather.

The grown-ups were fine, too. Every day, I had the pleasure of meeting a new slew of librarians from the vast Scottsdale system, as one picked me up from my hotel (in the quaint Old Town section) and drove me to the morning school, then to lunch with a selection of youth services folk, whereat I was passed over to another librarian who drove me to the pm school. People, our children are in excellent hands. The library professionals I met were among the most pleasant, sharp, and (like the weather) lovely I’ve ever encountered anywhere; simply at the top of their game. Not that this should surprise anyone.

Thank you, Scottsdale. You made me feel like a native son.

As if that weren’t enough, there is a mystical locus snugged among the western foothills of the McDowell Mountains, that, to me, rivals any religious site anywhere. One could call it a Temple of Work. Those who have visited it, or have been blessed enough to live and work there, will know in an instant what I’m talking about.

Taliesin.

For those not familiar with it, Taliesin (tally-Ess-in), or properly Taliesin West, is the winter home of the Frank Lloyd Wright Fellowship. Wright’s home and school in Wisconsin, the original Taliesin, was, though beautiful, frighteningly cold in winter. In 1936, seeking relief for himself, his wife, and the thirty-odd students studying architecture under him, Wright toured the Southwest and fell in love with the unspoiled Arizona desert northeast of Scottsdale; he plunked down a scandalously small sum and purchased six hundred rolling acres. Dubbed “the Camp” at first, this meager desert outpost was soon named Taliesin West, as Wright and his students erected building after building — living spaces, studios, offices, theaters. It continued to be Wright’s half-year home and workplace until his death in 1959. Taliesin West is a holy place, a house and home, certainly, but one whose entire being was and still is dedicated to work. Or rather to Work. It’s a quirky, open-air, many-leveled, many-angled house, its rooms connected by terraces and passages and fountains, courtyards, gardens, and spaces. Taliesin. You cannot visit it without immediately wanting to return.

Finally yesterday, still in the glow of Wright’s three-dimensional dream, I was informed by my editor that my fat odd novel, The Postcard, had been nominated for an Edgar Award in the Juvenile category. My breath catches. What an honor to have the book recognized by the esteemed Mystery Writers of America. To be an Edgar Finalist! Well. I don’t mind telling you, I am thrilled. Just the nomination has convinced me that the long travails my editor and I went through to craft the book were worth it. It’s a complicated story. It has a hundred things against it and probably just one going for it — a love of mystery. So, thank you, Mystery Writers of America. I’m honored to be cited by your judges.

And that was this week.

Today, on the road from sunny Scottsdale with a headcold, The Friday Book Report is pleased to offer another peak into the den of a writer for children. Alan Katz is the author of many bestselling picture books, having created the Silly Dilly line of song parodies (beginning, if I’m not mistaken, with Take Me Out of the Bathtub and Other Silly Dilly Songs in 2001), taking well-known tunes and re-lyricking them hilariously. His latest contributions to the Wacky American Songbook include Where Did They Hide My Presents?: Silly Dilly Christmas Songs; On Top of the Potty: And Other Get-Up-and-Go Songs; and Oops! (with illustrations by the renowned Edward Koren), all appearing in 2008. Here is what Alan has to say about his spacial writing technique.

My writer’s studio? Could be you’re sitting in it right now. ‘Cause although I have a real desk and a real chair in a real office-like room, the fact is that workspace is smack in the middle of my family’s den-like area, and just outside my 13-year-old son’s bedroom and down the hall from where my three other kids sleep. There’s a TV within earshot, plus three game systems, a DVD player, and soon (what was I thinking?) a Dance Dance Revolution set-up. So…

I generally work away from that home-office. I’ve written entire books while sitting in the Westport Library, happily tapping into their decaf and free Wi-Fi. Likewise at Panera Bread, Starbucks, and McDonald’s (where the coffee’s not bad and the Wi-Fi’s expensive ). I’ve typed out page after Silly Dilly page while at Barnes and Noble, Borders, and in local malls. And when my laptop and online access haven’t been available, I’ve been pleased to yank out a notebook and a pen and compose wherever I happen to be.

Of course the conditions in these public places are often less than ideal. But I’ve developed the ability to write wherever, whenever, no matter the circumstances. And though I can’t recommend it to everyone, it’s what I’ve always done. Wherever there are writing tools, I write. Sometimes I even get charged up by the people and noise around me.

It’s like some people need perfect stillness to fall asleep, while others could doze off in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I’m in the latter group; in fact, I’ve napped twice while writing this piece.

And speaking of this piece, I’ve been writing it in a very public place, at…

Nope, I won’t tell you. Because as I said before, you really could be sitting in my writer’s studio right now. So enjoy your meal, and remember to throw out your wrappers when you’re done. See ya.

Today The Friday Book Report offers a tour of James Preller’s shop. Jimmy is author of the successful and long-running Jigsaw Jones series of mysteries (Scholastic) and more recently the very well reviewed middle grade novels, Six Innings (Feiwel and Friends, 2008) and Along Came Spider (Scholastic, 2008). He has more novels and picture books forthcoming this year. We contacted Jimmy last month to write up a piece about his space. Here’s what he has to say.

Hey, Tony. Funny to receive your “workspace” request today. I was at the YMCA this afternoon, pedaling and puffing on the elliptical machine, watching Yo Yo Ma and James Taylor on “The Charlie Rose Show.” (By the way, Charlie Rose might have the coolest job on the planet.) Anyway, Yo Yo – if I may call him that, or does he prefer a simple Yo? — complimented Taylor on his fabulous barn, where JT makes music. Yo talked about the importance of a warm, inspiring workspace. I heaved a sigh.

Since mine is between my ears.

If I give it any thought at all (and I try not to), I basically hate where I work, in a windowless room in my basement. It’s drab and too dark, ugly really, and I’m not neat or particularly organized. One day I dream of a clean, well-lighted place. Here there are no doilies and artistic touches. I’m just not good at that stuff. Sometimes I’ll flee to the library, pad and pen in hand, seeking some expanse of space, a little light, and humanity. But mostly, I toil here in this grim room. But it’s undeniably my space, a place where I can be alone to sit and think. And that’s what “my workspace” means to me.

I guess that’s a function of my own limitations. Or, hey, maybe it’s part of my Irish charm – my native unfussiness! Another person might spruce it up, haul in fresh gear from IKEA or his German ancestors or wherever, make it look pleasing and comfortable and, oh, just so. But my reality is sitting in this black swivel chair at a falling-apart desk I bought at Office Max. I turn on my computer, pick out some tunes, and try to write. When things go well, it could be anywhere on this earth and it wouldn’t matter, doilies be damned.

The other feature worth mentioning, now that I come to think of it, is music. These days I’m listening from my computer, almost constantly. I have nearly 28,000 songs downloaded on my iMac, of all varieties (but I’m a huge Dylan guy), and there’s always something playing in my head. To me, it’s an indispensable companion to my workspace. Good sounds. When I think of books I like, and parts I skip, well, I never did care for those authors who spent a lot of time describing furniture, the floor plan of rooms, and complicated outfits. Go figure.