My room always smells different than the rest of the house. I don't know what it is. But I'll walk into my room at night and it will smell like what we had for tea three hours ago. Or I'll slip in during the evening and I know the neighbors are barbequeing. Or I'll open the door and I'll have no idea what the smell is that hits me. It's funny.

I relaying a scene I had visualized to a friend (it's to the song Transatlanticism, about which I've been meaning to write a huge blog for the past three weeks). This scene takes place at a train station at the end of the story, and I've been trying to figure out how to get it to mesh with a concept I'm working with that also takes place largely at a train station (can't have the same motif in too many of your stories, which is a huge myth that I am trying to disregard). It's been frustrating, because this beginning and this end that I've thought up just won't feel right. And today it clicked why. They are truly two different stories about two different things. Even though one has no end and one has no beginning, I know they would never work together because they aren't telling the same story. One is a story about the struggle people have when they try to leave and one is about people meeting each other and helping them through difficult times. Well, that's the cheesy synopsis. Truly, one is about the struggle of separation and one is about the joys of friendship and intimacy. And while it's a little, well, typical of me to have too many ideas running around, and I fear that one will suffer from this over abundance and never get written, it's better than trying to fit these two pieces together. They would be wrong. And while I've done no real writing today, I feel incredibly satisfied with my progress.