I rearranged my living room a little while ago, to make it more like a livingroom.

I finally got a coffee table, a funny oval thing that's pretending to be classy, but has sticky circles pulled up from the veneer.

I shoved that in the middle. James' old red couch sits on one side, and the cabinet holding all my game systems sits on the other. My TV looms above all, backlit by the window in all it's 13" glory.

To the right of the red couch is my green chair, which I have delegated as the Writing Chair.

It sit in it to write.

Clever, huh?

The old laptop my father gave me sits in permanent idle mode beside the green chair. I've been writing a little bit each night.

I was angry at my old novel. I couldn't quite get the reasoning to line up, so I changed the personality of one of the main characters, and changed the motivation of another.

The beginning lines up perfectly now, where before it was a jumbled mass of good intentions.

Now I just have to iron out the details.

Details, details.

I am pretty sure I write like crap, but it doesn't really matter, because I won't stop.

What was it that Asimov once said?

"I write for the same reason I breathe. If I didn't, I would die."

I cannot write all the time, but I try.

If I could never write again, though, I think I would die.

Even if I'm terrible at it.

.

Rosie.

Before&After