I like to refer to my arty zone as a marshland. This is borrowed from an Andersen story about a witch living in a marsh and owning a magical trunk, which contains essence of literature from all over the world. All stories, masterpieces as well as pure trash, ever written since the beginning of history can be found inside it. In that story, there is also a writer in a quest for finding Story (no pun intended on my part), which visits him no more. That being said, I read omnivorously. If only I can write ten percent as much...