Moving into my new apartment has really improved my writing. It's fascinating how the little things have helped me out. Like, having unobstructed wall space.
(It's an mass-plosion of plotting Post-its.)
And having my own desk. Technically, I've had one for my whole college career, but actually building my own desk--
-- has somehow made me really excited about plopping my rear-end down for hours of writing.
Of course, hours of writing turns into surfing the net, reading my many books in the to-get-to pile, and other neglected objects d' interest.
However, not tonight. Tonight I have paint fume headache, and am going happily off into TV land to rest my aching mind.
CSI here I come.
What I'm listening: About to plug in to the dulcet tones of Gil Grissom
What I want most: this headache to go away. The Tylenol to kick in. And the peace to be restored.