Strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff

I write in a closet.

Literally. It’s my own little nook and I love it. Here’s a picture of it:

I didn’t build the bookshelves. The amazing industrious crafty previous tenant built shelves AND put an outlet in AND an overhead light. I can’t thank her/him/it enough. That black thing hanging in the corner – you see that? That is a gift from my oldest friend in the world. We had this conversation on the phone:

Him: “What are you going to be for Halloween this year?”

Me: “The shadow of my former self.”

And there it is, folks. He made it for me. My very own shadow (suck it Peter Pan!). It’s a pretty good likeness only you can’t tell here cause her head is drooping. I should fix it and take another picture. Here’s what it looks like when the tacks haven’t fallen out.

Also, the little radio there is one of my favorite things ever because each morning, during writing time, I get to listen to WQXR’s Jeff Spurgeon. And let me tell you, if you don’t know Jeff, you better ask somebody. His dulcet tones will put anyone in a dreamstate of goodness and light with unicorns and rainbows and singing mermaids. But he’s only on in the wee hours of the morning.

Like 5 am.

Which is when I write.

Because I clearly hate myself.

Most people think that ‘s crazy. And they’re right. Honestly. It wasn’t my idea. It was my husband’s. He writes too and he came up with this cockamamie plan that if you get up early and write at the butt-crack of dawn then you get it done without excuses, before the world takes a piece out of you. First thought, best thought sort of thing, maybe.

Also, he clearly hates sleep.

But I gotta tell you, it works. Granted I’m asleep by 10:30 on the couch with a book splayed across my face but it works. I’ve never in my life been as productive as I have in the past 4 years that I’ve been doing this.

So that’s what I do. 5 am. But no one writes in a vacuum.  The other side of my room contains random crap – christmas decorations, boxes of old journals, boxes of comics and this:

That’s June. Everyone say “Hi June.”

June is as demonic as she looks. (Trust me – her laser eyes will melt your face off). That’s June’s box. It was supposed to hold comics but instead it holds June. She is a massive pain in the butt but she spends every writing morning in that little nook with me. Her random unsolicited meows go well with Mozart.

Okay enough about writing.

Next post: Books! Comics! Battlestar Galactica!