At home, I'm cleaning. Taking down the tree was just the first step. I'm finally dealing with the piles and the boxes left from when I moved in last Thanksgiving, taking heavy duty carpet cleaner to the spots left by Mitzi when she got too old to control her bladder, and the surprise packages left by Fizgig in places I didn't think he was small enough to get into. When it's all done, I'll be out of excuses, and I'll have nothing left to do but write.

That's the idea, anyway.

What I really need is a place to write. That sounds like just another excuse, but it's not. I loved my desk at my apartment, even when it was a cluttered as it is now, and when the apartment was as messy as my mother's attic is now; but I had a big picture window looking out over a wooded creek, where I could watch the wildlife when I became blocked, and the apartment was full of light, and when I sat down at my desk there I felt like a writer.

The attic is dark and cold, even when it's 90 degrees outside and I turn off the a/c it's cold, and I have one window that looks out over my mom's cocker spaniel's pen and the propane tank. If I stand up on the window seat and squint through the trees just right, I can catch a glimpse of the lake, but just barely. When I sit at my desk there, I don't feel like a writer. I feel like someone with bills to pay, and web pages to upload, and e-mail to answer; but not like someone who writes.

It shouldn't matter so much, but it does. Sure, I can write anywhere, just give me a pen and a pad of paper; but if I haven't gotten into that writer mindset, it feels like a chore, and my output is uninspired and cold. Give me a place to write with just a little bit of romance, that's comfortable, well lit and inviting, and I can't wait to sit down and write. Even if the words don't come, just the act of sitting there makes me feel like a writer.

I don't have a place like that now, and I'm not quite certain what to do about that.