A dedicated place where I can tack index cards to the wall.
Las Vegas. The Pacific Time Zone is turning me into a morning person, and I do not like it. When I check my watch, I do a double-take, thinking it must be near midnight when it’s only half past eight. The sun goes down at four o’clock here, which does not help. I feel elderly and feeble, yawning and drowsing at ten o’clock. This morning I woke before seven and had no idea what to do with myself. I tried to work on the novel, but my brain was still filled with cobwebs. So I opened my inbox. The Eastern Seaboard had been sending me emails for hours, so I had plenty to do until noon.
As far as timekeeping goes, I came across this great link on Mastodon to a literary clock.
After another dim sum lunch, C. and I began to search for a place to rent. We want a box at the edge of the sprawl with a big room with hardwood floors where C. can paint and a small room where I can write. After so many years spent writing in libraries, lobbies, and cafes, the prospect of my own office feels like a luxury, even a little obscene. But the possibility of a dedicated place where I can tack index cards to the wall like a real writer gives me a happy little buzz.
Hundreds of listings cluttered our screens, all variations on the same tan townhouse. We gave them names to keep them straight. Tomorrow we’re seeing Crazy Stairs, Fake Ash Zen, and Astroturf Fire.
