Towards a begrudging acceptance and perpetual reminder that my writing method is far more chaotic than the OCD parts of me (not nipped by meds) would like, consisting mostly of staring at and iterating random snippets until they start to congeal into something worthwhile, a process of processing – usually in my weird hybrid script/prose draft-form – that takes far longer that I'd like to happen to happen. Hoping to get in my second workblock this afternoon, especially if they're working on the side door and basement windows and out of the Paintshop – though I'm mentally prepared for it to be at least Thursday until I get something of a semblance of space and time and solitude. Glass block guys are here and, of course, the basement windows aren’t standard size…