I wrote a novella last summer that I am determined to create a full length novel out of. It was inspired by people I met during my summers at the Renaissance Faire- modern day gypsies (though that is technically a derogatory term I have learned through research) that travel to faires and festivals around the country selling their wares. To gain inspiration for writing about nomads I have made an odd little campsite for myself to write in in the evenings.
It consists of a decent sized screen tent that I have draped with light colored fabrics for privacy, and relief from the sun. I have a chair and a blanket inside so I can sprawl about with my books and notebooks or even my laptop sometimes. Outside I have two wrought iron candle holder poles that came with the house, so I'm told, and long red candles that belonged to my mother since before I was born. When it gets dark (like now) I light them and hope a "Death of the Moth" situation does not arise. I'm sure the neighbors are slightly taken aback by this display, but no one's said anything yet. I expect next week I will have to take it all down so the lawn can be mowed, but hopefully I can get it back up directly, I have actually begun writing again. If I don't write anything for a few days I get anxious, it's such a part of my life and behavior, I went over a week without really writing anything during this move and I am relieved to be back on track. The tent does have its downfalls, a wasp got trapped in it yesterday and could not be persuaded out the opening. I had to light incense inside to make him sleepy with the smoke, then brush him off the roof, on the ground and out of the tent where he regained his faculties and flew away.
There is so much I want to do. Last night I stumbled across a script I wrote when I was 16. It's not half bad, I'd really like to rework it now that I am older and arguably wiser. Though it is possible I peaked very young and my best years are behind me... well, I won't dwell on that thought.