Why is it that I have become hooked on being somewhere else to get my writing done?
Be it new words or just plot work, I seem to get more done when I am not in the house. At first I chalked it up to the breakup, and then the move. Then it was the post move; my apartment really was a mess for a while. But the apartment isn’t a mess any longer. Even worked again on de-cluttering the desk a little bit.
Yesterday after a dentist’s appoint, I stayed out and sat in at a local shop with my notepad to do some thoughtful plotting. I wasn’t expecting to get much accomplished (though the tea and desert was delightful), but in the end, I managed to figure out a significant plot point pertaining to the villain. I have a pretty strong motivation, methinks, for both him and the male M.C. And a secondary character has stepped up to add a new twist that I’m really excited about.
Plus, characters are going to get killed left, right and center. Mua-ha-ha.
But it shouldn’t be like that. I have this place with all my research books. I have uninterrupted hours at my disposal. Really, this
I’m also terribly, horrifically cola-deprived. It’s terrible. Trying to cut back. No longer have any in the house. But the craving for carbonated sweetness is overwhelming.
PS: Wrote this on the 10th, posting on the 11th. Hah!