The downside of this is a geometric marvel, side after side of inconvenience, sexual harassment by the octogenarian who owns the unit, having to box all my food, bleach it, bleach the shelves, lay down poison, then put everything back...only to have to do it all again two weeks later because everything is festooned in shit and urine. It's a hexahexaflexagon of increasingly dire pains in the ass. When I pay attention to it all it gives me a headache.
So I have looked elsewhere for a while now, and the result is a fairly ginormous (for me) work of fiction. Truthfully, it's the length of a novella, but I'm not done yet. And since I usually write things that take about as long as a quick round of table tennis (and I'm a poor player, so those are short volleys), this is a new neighborhood to explore. I like it. No plans beyond completion and revision, but it's comforting to discover that I actually have some staying power, something I've always doubted.
If you write epic drafts, take a week out to compress your work. Bring forth the diamond hidden in the cluttery prose. And if normal for you is seventeen syllables and out, try to write something longer than a tweet this week. You know who you are. Who's your flip side?