A few months after my son was born (this would have been September, 2011), circumstances dictated that my office become a guest bedroom once more. This really was a great thing, because it meant that the person occupying it was helping life not devolve into some kind of horror flick. An interesting side-effect was that I moved my laptop into the kitchen and did most of my fun work there (the 2.0 update for TD, at the time).
This also meant that I did a fair bit of writing, too. I actually really enjoy it, partly as a means of expressing and organizing my scattered thoughts, and partly as a measure of “things made”. I like making things, and I’m slowly starting to believe that the more things I make, the better I’ll be at making them.
Back to writing, though. I played around briefly - three or four days, at most - on 750words.com, and actually really enjoyed the experience. Spending fifteen minutes to write 750 words was incredibly cathartic, especially given how much work-related stress I was under at the time. It made me want to write more, which ended up making writing circle back around to a source of guilt instead.
“Guilt?!” you say. “How can this possibly make you feel guilty?” Well, you see, I don’t do it. I can sit down at my desk and not write shit. That’s where I program, you see, or browse reddit, or do any number of things that aren’t “write some goddamned prose, you monkey.” And, yet, this is being written, right now! How can that be?!
Well, I’m at the kitchen table right now. Obviously.