One of the great thrills of my early writing life was visiting a former professor at his home in north London near Hampstead Heath. He was a well known novelist at the time; since then his fame has only grown. And I was going to have dinner with him!

He lived on a leafy street lined with immaculately restored Victorian brick terraces. For some reason, as I approached the arched iron gate to his front door, my eyes were glued to my feet. I remember the sidewalk, which was laid with elegant flagstones; the worn granite curb (or “kerb,” as he would have spelled it) along the avenue; and the neat rows of cobblestones that lined the edge of the asphalt like the hem of a bespoke suit.

I couldn’t wait to see the interior of the house. My old professor greeted me warmly and led me on a quick tour. He was certainly house-proud, but we didn’t linger in the sumptuous living room hung with paintings by his famous friends, and dominated by an intricately carved post and lintel from an Indonesian temple. We breezed right through the spectacular library, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases groaning under the weight of rare leather-bound volumes — the kind of setting you might see in an engraving of Dickens or Kipling.

We did pause by his antique snooker table. He was quite proud of it, and apparently spent a lot of time unwinding with a cue in his hand.

“But here’s what you really came to see,” he said with a wink, leading me into a small sunblasted room. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. The paint scheme was pale yellow; the surface of the oak writing table was brightly polished; and the far wall was dominated by a window with two enormous undivided sashes.

It was bright!

Unlike the rest of the house, which was a visual feast, the studio was exceedingly spare. An old IBM Selectric typewriter was perched on the table. There was a business-like swivel chair. On a high shelf behind the chair, occupying pride of place, was a yard-long set of volumes: the unabridged Oxford English Dictionary.

That was it. Desk. Chair. Typewriter. Dictionary.

I was much more interested in the rest of the house, which was crammed with strange curios. But he just stood in the doorway, beaming.

“So this is where the magic happens,” I said.

The cliché caused his brow to furrow ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose it is.”

I was flattered that he’d allowed me into his sanctum sanctorum. After all, he’d written some of his most important books there. Clichés aside, it really was where the magic happened.

But there was a strange disconnect between the modesty of the space and the massive importance it held for him.

Since then, I’ve had the good fortune to be invited into the studios of strangers and friends alike. The infinite variety of creative workplaces fascinates me, but there does seem to be one key distinction to be made: neat versus messy.

My professor’s studio was an exemplar of the neat category. Other writing neatniks would include E.B. White and Pablo Neruda, both of whom chose to work in stripped-down cabins exposed to the sea.

I happen to belong to the messy camp. I justify the totterings heaps that surround me by saying, “A messy desk is the sign of an organized mind!”

(Of course, it’d be hard to find a more organized mind than my old professor’s…)

My favorite messy studio belonged to the sculptor Alexander Calder. The place where he made his mobiles looked like a bombed-out wire factory. Such beauty emerged from that squalor!

An interesting selection of famous studios can be found on the Web at the following address:

http://www.buzzfeed.com/summeranne/40-inspiring-workspaces-of-the-famously-creative

In fact, the friend who sent me this link, who happens to be a very accomplished illustrator and painter, invited me into her studio for the first time the other day. As she led me up the stairs, a familiar tension hung in the air. She was showing me her sanctum sanctorum, the place where the magic happened.

I understood her nerves completely. How would I react? What if I judged it harshly? Could we still be friends after something like that?

As it turned out, her studio was full of light and color — a full-throated expression of creative chaos.

“It’s kind of a mess,” she said, although the doubt in her voice was balanced with palpable pride.

I stood in the doorway, smiling. “Compared to mine,” I said, “it’s really not that bad…”