Weekly Check-in

Festival season is starting to swing into full steam here in Rochester, and that means that it's time for free concerts right across the street from me and art shows.

It also means that my usual haunt is far too crowded for a couple of weeks, so I'm trying to adjust to writing in my own apartment.

I know, I know, "Qué horror! You don't get to go to a coffee shop and write, but have to try and do it in your own apartment." But it's always been something kind of a mental block in trying to write in my own place, at least that's where I've always felt least productive.

But I'm looking at a new day in that, I hope. Before I've always had a place where I crashed, the place where my bed was at. But in what seems like a rather rapid development, over the past year I've started trying to get more invested in the place that I live.

I started buying artwork and hanging it on my walls. I think my end goal is to make my apartment feel little different from the coffee shops that I write in, art covering the walls, making it a beautiful, clean space. It's nice. I've only got a small handful of pieces right now, but I have enough that I needed to buy a second six-pack of frames.

This apartment belongs to me and the furry little hay-eater who lives in my closet. And I'm no longer fighting against inertia, depression, and the debris of toxic relationships. Depression will hit again, but that's the nice thing about a studio, it's almost more effort to not sweep and clean up the apartment.