The other night I had an epiphany. I'd known for months that part of the reason writing my book has taken so long is because I spent almost a year trying to polish scenes and plot points that didn't work -- an effect that is like constantly rearranging furniture in a house with no bathroom or windows. But I hadn't fully understood why I did this, besides being buried in denial about having built a house with no bathroom or windows.
Then it came to me -- I'd been too obsessed with the details. Why? Because I love the details in books. That's what make books worth reading to me. Those little bits of information that build onto a whole and offer insight and truth.
But you need to have a whole first.
I remember watching the movie about Ed Wood years ago, and thinking that he had all the enthusiasm in the world but didn't realize he needed to pay attention to the details. Part of the reason I decided not to go into film despite having a degree was my hatred for the details involved. I hated figuring out the fstop of lighting, the frame rate of film, where the music needed to swell. I loved the stories, I didn't care at all about the technicalities.
Meanwhile, I love working on the details of my real house (which thankfully has a bathroom and windows). At some point in the last two years I realized that if I wanted my house to look a certain way, I'd have to Do It Myself. Perhaps if I had a large disposable income I could hire someone, but even then, I fear I'm too much of a control freak.
I don't have any particular style or goal. I don't know Interior Design, but I know what I like -- A little Jane Austen, a little Steam Punk, and anything else that hits my fancy.
I made those curtains. I'm proud.
The apartment overlords must have realized I'm on a home decorating mood, because they helpfully removed large parts of the trees outside (a bit too much perhaps) and now my patio is getting more light than ever.