Saturday spent writing...
The sky looks different at night down here, this far south. Not by so much i can't find constellations, but they're in different places.
Doing your laundry here is like buying moonshine. You go through twisting streets to a tiny unmarked metal door. You knock, and a woman opens it a crack. You pass her your clothes in a bag and 50 pesos, and she hands you a slip of paper and tells you a time to return. Nowhere does it say "Lavanderia" or indicate that it is any kind of business. There are actual visible operating laundry places, but this one is the place closest to where i live. I admit, the furtive weirdness of it is some of its appeal.
Yesterday i wrote all day long, homework for my classes, but not unwelcome. It's fairly incredible to have whole days set aside for nothing but writing and reading the work of others. I turned out a first draft of a short story, one that a website has commissioned, based upon that little piece i had in the Steampunk anthology. It's amazing what legs that story and in fact that whole universe has. Good thing i'm down here working on the novel, which gets workshopped this coming week. It might be the most marketable thing i have right now.
Spending the day in my room writing yesterday, i never left the house. I went outside into the courtyard, into the lounge for sporadic internet, and the breakfast room for desayuno--hermiting doesn't feel as limiting here. At home, maybe i'd go out on the balcony, chat with the neighbor, but i always feel a little bit losery not leaving the house at all for a day of writing there. Maybe that's just a mental block i need to GTFO.
Doing your laundry here is like buying moonshine. You go through twisting streets to a tiny unmarked metal door. You knock, and a woman opens it a crack. You pass her your clothes in a bag and 50 pesos, and she hands you a slip of paper and tells you a time to return. Nowhere does it say "Lavanderia" or indicate that it is any kind of business. There are actual visible operating laundry places, but this one is the place closest to where i live. I admit, the furtive weirdness of it is some of its appeal.
Yesterday i wrote all day long, homework for my classes, but not unwelcome. It's fairly incredible to have whole days set aside for nothing but writing and reading the work of others. I turned out a first draft of a short story, one that a website has commissioned, based upon that little piece i had in the Steampunk anthology. It's amazing what legs that story and in fact that whole universe has. Good thing i'm down here working on the novel, which gets workshopped this coming week. It might be the most marketable thing i have right now.
Spending the day in my room writing yesterday, i never left the house. I went outside into the courtyard, into the lounge for sporadic internet, and the breakfast room for desayuno--hermiting doesn't feel as limiting here. At home, maybe i'd go out on the balcony, chat with the neighbor, but i always feel a little bit losery not leaving the house at all for a day of writing there. Maybe that's just a mental block i need to GTFO.
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