I have always considered myself a big strong sort of moose girl. I worked all the way up to my due date when I was pregnant both times, I have a fairly high pain threshold, and if someone called out sick I was always the one who stayed and pulled the double. But just recently, during my move, I have found out that I don't do well if everything is not just so when I sit down to write. When did this happen? Trying to write on the couch in other people's houses while they're watching TV, sitting on a hard chair in a small room with my computer on a sewing table or on the floor (my ass got numb) leaning against a wall. I have turned into such a weenie. I have to have everything in order. Like my desk now. Lamp on the left, yaoi and paperbacks on the right in small bookcases. I have to look up and see my Teahouse print and my Jo Chen print on the shelf, my lucky cat, my gargoyle, my dragon, my iPod speaker thingy and just, basically, everything in it's place. When did I turn into Monk? I had no idea I was like this. My husband of course was like, oh yeah, you're waaaaaaaay high maintenance. And he wonders why I'm leaving him nothing in my will. But why the cat on one side of the desk doesn't bother me I have no idea. Though looking at Dewey (my daughter named him after the Dewey Decimal System they learned last year. She said it, like him, is a mystery) is very calming. Watching him sleep eight hours a day and run around like a dork at night, is fun. But all in all, I guess I am one of those people who needs everything settled around me to be able to create. Hemingway wrote on boats, small ones, Kerouac on the road, I have friends who write on one end of a kitchen table or on trains. I should start schooling myself to be more hard-core. I'll start working on it tomorrow, right now I need some tea.