My office and library are the same room, at the front of my house looking out on the hillside street where as many people pass walking their dogs as cars drive by.
To the immediate right is a bookcase that fills with current-year books, which I’ve recently about half-emptied, moving books into the general stacks. A few books I haven’t yet read — you can see Anathem — are still there; the 2008 novels I have read line the top two shelves.
Turning further right are the stacks of SF titles through Z, with knick-knacks on the curved endpieces, and boxes of extraneous books (review copies, etc.) waiting to be carried out. The room opens through French doors from the hallway.
Turning left from the glasstop desk is a library cart full of the latest incoming — books and magazines, received or purchased, waiting to be listed on the site; ARCs on the next shelf; copies of Locus below that. The three closest bookcases, including the short one beneath window, are full of SF-related nonfiction and reference books. Behind those and at far left are the stacks of SF titles near the front of the alphabet.
And turning farther left is a leather sofa-bed where I read and nap, complete with requisite cat (Munchkin); French door at extreme left edge of photo; bookscases of art books, general fiction and nonfiction, and the SF stacks beginning with A in the right-facing bookcase behind the sofa.
Most of my SF library is in this room, though I do have another room downstairs, about the size of a large walk-in closet, full of anthologies and back-issue magazines. And in a couple guest bedrooms are additional bookcases, full of books about film and TV, YA and graphic novels, old encyclopedia, puzzles and old textbooks, and other miscellany.