For years I've insisted that there was no right "place" for me when it comes to writing. Inside, outside. In a car, on a plane. At the library, at my parents house. In a hotel. On the bed. In the tub. I could write anywhere.
Then I came here, and I realized that I was wrong, sort of.
Yes, I can write anywhere, but I've never written like this before. Normally, I consider 2,000 words a day fantastic, but in two days here I've written over 13,000 without even having to try.
For the past couple days I've been staying with a friend at her house out in the middle of nowhere, and she kept telling me that since I had my laptop I should try to get some writing done. She insisted that her house was a naturally creative place and that all of her creative friends come there when they're having creative problems.
I smiled and nodded. A few times I even pretended to go up to my room and write just to make her happy, but truth be told I thought she was nuts. Houses don't have that kind of power.
Then yesterday I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I started playing around with an idea that had been bugging me for a couple months. And the words just started coming in a way they haven't in a long time.
Seven chapters later, and my only question is how exactly does one go about stealing a two story house?