A few months ago I read Stephen King's On Writing, and basically hated it. I hated it even more after I saw Secret Window, because not only did I pay six bucks for his crappy book, I paid 8 dollars to see another one of his crappy books made into a crappy movie that starred Johnny Depp with braces. Johnny Depp. Braces. Big mistake. Huge.

(Side note: we only saw Craptastic Movie because Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was sold out. It was my sister Sarah who said, very solemnly, "I didn't ever need to see Johnny Depp with braces" while the credits were rolling. So true.)

One point King makes very early in the book is that if your writing desk is in front of a window, you should move it immediately to a nondescript corner, preferably in a dark, damp basement, far away from any possible distraction. How incredibly boring, right?

Tonight I moved my writing desk out of the corner and in front of a big window overlooking our back yard. You can even see the tip top of the Frost Bank in downtown Austin if you sit up really straight. I hadn't put the desk in the corner in the first place because Stephen King recommended it, it just happened that way when we unpacked our stuff. (Brad likes to remind me that he suggested the desk in front of the window way back when, to which I say, "window say what? Huh? I didn't hear you, can you repeat that?" Then he rolls his eyes and walks away.)

It's always seemed romantic to me to write while staring out of a big window, though the two things don't really compliment one another in the end. Staring out a window while typing is the surest way to end up with a line of "u qn qeurubf qurg rgw qeibf jwta, xeqp`" when what you meant to say is I am writing with the wrong keys, crap! Still, it's wonderful. Tonight, after I dragged our bed from one side of the room to the other, unhooked the computer, spilled a bag of tacks on the floor, and accidentally squashed Sasha with the box spring, I sat at this transplanted desk and watched the fireflies dance outside. Totally worth the effort.

Speaking of fireflies, they just appeared in the backyard about a week ago. Last night, Brad and I were sitting on our porch when his eyes lit up. "Look! It's a firefly," he said, so excited. I got to see him see his first firefly of the season. Stoked.

Also currently flying around the backyard are these teeny tiny cotton puffs that look like dandelion wishes. Brad says they're seeds from the cotton trees. I say they're the fairies' fur coats, tossed away after the Spring Equinox like boxing up old winter sweaters. They're everywhere, floating through the air, then catching each other and forming wispy spiderweb strands connecting the plants and furniture. I suspect they're the cause of my horrible allergies this week as well - all things beautiful come with a price.

Does the fact that I rearranged our office/bedroom on a Friday night make me old? Or is it the fact that I'm writing about rearranging furniture on a Friday night? Or is it possibly the fact that I couldn't be more content?

Lucy loves you |