Not seconds before I open up MacJournal, created the file for this blog post and had my fingers poised to type — there is suddenly a cat is between me and the laptop that is precariously balanced atop my legs. But instead of annoyed I realize that I am more tired than I thought. Lethargic. That may be the risotto weaving its starchy spell, or the glass of white wine I had with it.
I have a week to go until the big move.
My office, as I’ve said, has been torn to pieces. With my desk being the only safe, flat surface left in the room, it has become a dumping ground for all manner of odds and ends: bills that need to be filed, receipts from purchases, a scratch pad with scribbled notes, books I shouldn’t have bought, half-finished chap stick, earphones, day planners, coins. No writing. No uploading of notes. None of it. At least, not done here.
But still, I am having measured success away from home. Monday saw some legitimate work getting done (all of my longhand written scene made it into the computer, catching me up completely) and I managed a couple of paragraphs before critique night on Thursday. Surprisingly, I wrote two and a half pages longhand on Friday while I was waiting for the writing group at the bar for an impromptu beer night. I only got a couple of odd responses while I worked, including one guy asking what I was writing, and then if I was spying. Which I wasn’t, not really, unless they were secretly werewolves and the loss of a PS3 was somehow a critical plot point to my gothic romance. But I digress …
So maybe this whole romanticized image of Lone Writer Practicing Craft At Local Pub isn’t so off the mark. Plus, afterward I got to celebrate with drinks! And noms! Bonus. Tho’ expensive if in the long run if I never manage to make a cent off this stuff.
Anyway, a week left. This time next week I will have finished what will likely be a pins-and-needles day at work. Afterwards, I will have grabbed something unsatisfying to eat somewhere and then proceeded to throw whatever non-essentials that are a) portable and b) ready into a truck that will stand sentinel in the driveway as I spend the last night in my first-ever-owned home. I will be alone save for the cat in a house that will be more empty than full. I will either fall into exhausted sleep or, more likely, fall into a sleepless exhaustion while my monkey-mind chirps and chatters.
While I’m excited about getting my place all in order again, setting things just so and just to my tastes, I’m starting to accept that the odds of actually having my office in the main living area are shrinking. There will just not be the space.
That said, I’ve become taken with the idea of converting one of the other basement rooms into my office. Right now, it embodies just about every bad feature a basement could have. The floor is lumpy, poured concrete, and the walls are bare drywall except for two places — one where it was stripped away to work on leaky pipes and another where the wall was cut away into the bones of the house to make a series of deep, unfinished shelves.
But it has potential.
Just have to make sure it doesn’t turn into a project that replaces my writing. But I can see my desk in the middle of the room, those unfinished shelves holding all my books, a cork board on the one wall, a huge whiteboard on the other, and just enough watery light coming in from the basement window to remind me that there is a world outside of the one in my own head.
A week away. I’m already tired / already excited / already dreading / already loving all of it.