But not a bad sort of plodding--more of a meandering, comfortable, quiet journey. Doing what I need to do, but not overly fussing about it.
I learned something over the last few days--I like writing fiction on the kitchen table. It's centrally located, it's bright orange (very stimulating), it's walls are covered with the end results of Nathan's creativity, the coffee machine is at hand, and it smells good.
I sit at the table and I write...and write. Pages at time, at the table.
My room definitely has its place. (And no, I refuse to give it up.) It's wonderful for when Mark and Nathan are being loud and in my face about everything. Then it becomes my refuge, quiet, calm, and contained--everything the boys are not. But having a room of one's own doesn't mean that you always have to seclude yourself in it. It's doesn't always have to be literal--perhaps all that's needed is the mental space of one's own.
In any case, I'm enjoying this exploring of space--within and without. And I've got the pages to prove its worth.