I am crazy-mad sick. I haven’t been this sick in several years — stone-solid congested, blowing my nose like a trumpet at a jazz festival — and I’ve not decided whether the dampness is helping or hindering my recovery. Certainly the ocean humidity has helped with my allergies, but the cold? Too early to tell. Still, this is the best time to get sick if one must. I’m not interrupting any set plans, I’m not missing work. Strangely I’m reading less, but that’s probably the headache from the congestion interfering with that.
And then yesterday, on my two week anniversary of arriving in Vancouver, I get the call from the shipping company. They’re coming tomorrow, I think as I answer the phone, sick but suddenly buoyed by what the call means. I can unpack my stuff this week, Mike and I can set everything up at last, and it begins!
No, actually. My things haven’t left Ontario yet, the nervous yet exceedingly polite dispatcher tells me. After emails being sent to the person who set up the transaction triggers another call from the dispatcher I learn, hours later, that my things haven’t even left Sudbury. He will call me next week, or I will call him, to get a new delivery estimate. Call him, he says, because my file has been sitting on his desk for five days and he is the one most familiar with it. They still haven’t found a truck to put my meager belongings on, so small a delivery that they can’t ship it alone.
This was not the news I expected to hear.
Crushing? You bet. But hilarious anecdote material when I’m a few months removed from now. I was delayed flying out, one of my bags was put on a later flight twice and was delivered to the door, and now my things will be delivered anywhere from one to two weeks later than their original estimate. I’m like a cross-country Goldilocks — my baggage being delayed the ‘just right’ size, I suppose. In the end my original flight delay, while a pain in the ass for me, was better for the cat who’d had a rough ride from Sudbury to Toronto. She needed the break. Perhaps the same will be said for my stuff. We shall see.
Besides, I’ve lived without my stuff for many a month before — just then I knew what I was getting into. At least I have Internet this time, my laptop and my cat. (Plus a roommate who has been all kinds of awesomesauce to me. I am the luckiest of ducks.)
This does mean that my edits for STAR DOOR remain in limbo, as all the paper-related material for the novel is still two thousand kilometers away. (The little nagging voice is pretty strongly suggesting that might be a procrastination-enabling fib on part.) Meanwhile, making slow but steady progress on the new novel that I shouldn’t be writing and I have some crits on tap. My slushing’s suffered this month, but I’m trying to catch up.
And NaNoWriMo starts tomorrow. I’m tempted to throw my hat in there, give me the push I need to unfunk, unfuck my habits and headspace. Can I do 50,000 words that don’t suck? Not entirely, I mean, or no more so than a regular first draft? Best to try and fail, I think, then not try at all. It’s not like I have much else to do, eh? Clothes I can wear to office-y interviews? Yeah, they’re in Sudbury with everything else.
Guess that answers that question. NaNoWriMo AHOY!