the space in which one works and takes leisure is very important when considering the context of one's work.
Dickens wrote in smoky, billowy london during mechanized reform of the industrial revolution.
The Bronte sisters migrated their works up North, where they could pursue Romantic notions in the peace and quiet of the countryside.
Jane Austen, humourously picking at social structures of the 1800s, wrote about sensibility. Love, in truth. Love in such a time of cogs and steam engines and wars of independance. And such a universal truth at that. And then we speak of the expectations of an honourable marriage, and such implications of finance and security that go with one of those.
If I were to write about something of my own time, well, I could closely resemble Austen's sentiments about love and all that. Love exists today as it existed then. There's just more ways of being in love, I guess. And we have the internet, which means we have sitcoms and pornography and dating sites and all hours chat rooms. Love is in existence, but in distilled forms. Distorted forms also. But how do we say 'I love you' and mean it? Better, how do we say 'I love you too' when the former is presented to you, (often very abruptly and unwelcomingly). And what if you are the unfortunate one who loves and is not returned?
If I were to write something I think i'd have to have a good view. There would need to be good lighting in the room and ample ventilation so that the air can circulate. I would need fresh air so that I could think crisply, and not have to breathe in the staleness of last minute's thought. There would be coffee, lots. There would be silence, much. There would be heavy breath-taking. There would be many words in mid-air, sailing around in the atmosphere. I would be able to use any and every word at my pleasure without having to ask. I would also know the meaning of each one. Lastly, there would be time. Endless time. Time without a finite. Exponential time, with no deadline or prospect of death. Time would never limit itself by a strike or tick. I would have infinite time and not a trace of boredom or tragedy or hunger.