I think writers need to practice like pianists--practice finding words that describe settings, or feelings evoked by settings; words that chronical the past in ways that bring us to the present.
For this stage of my writing-to-publication journey, I have claimed my son's old bedroom. When we built our house, he was in high school and wanted to be a woodworker. He made an interesting pattern on each wall with tongue and groove siding. He refused to let me put in a ceiling fan. The desk is the one he built for the sister he teased mercilessly before she went to film school. The dresser is a demo model he took to craft shows.
The computer is a big Mac. I have had to relearn a few operations, but now I remember why I cursed Microsoft after I bought my first laptop. I hit the up volume key by mistake too often, but it is fun to type while streaming the Boss. The sole window underlooks the deck where our house cats roll in the soft, dry dirt. If I tap on the window, they leap up, surprised.
The baseboard heater clicks as its fins expand, and the smell of warming dust marks how long I have feared putting butt in chair.