Last week ended up as something of a waste, time-wise. I keep putting off finishing revisions of "Jetsam", for a variety of reasons. For one, I've lost a lot of enthusiasm for the story. It's the first story I wrote after all my novels, and I'm a bit tired of it. I've lived with a long time, and I guess familiarity does indeed breed contempt. Also, even with the suggestions of a few Clarion instructors, I still have my doubts that the story works well enough to sell.

I've also come to realize that I don't have much of a writing space set up in my apartment. Writing at the kitchen table isn't working - I get too distracted, and I don't feel like it's "the writing area". When I sit down and open up the laptop, I don't get that sense that it's time to write, time to work. It's not just a sense of space, it's the mental space I can't get into. This isn't a post-Clarion thing, it's coming to realize that I'm not the kind of person who can flop onto the couch or the bed with the laptop, or drag it to the local cafe - I was never that kind of person. Writing is my evening "work", and I need an appropriate work area for it, otherwise I don't take it as seriously as I should.

So: this weekend I bought a desk. My check from the novella will cover it, so despite my precarious finances, I'll still be ok. This is a necessary item, in my opinion. If I'm going to start writing novels again, I need the routine to support the high word count that I'll require of myself every evening, and part of the routine is the desk and the lamp and the dictionaries and all the research books, and knowing that when I sit down and surround myself with those things, I have to write, whether I'm in the mood or not. I don't believe in "the writing muse". I do, however, believe in coffee and a cup of red pencils and a big-ass wooden desk.