(or Writing Life, Interrupted)
My husband and I closed on our first home last Wednesday. Then, before we had a chance to let that thought sink in, my sister and her fiancé came to town for Fourth of July – a four-day weekend of wine, fine dining, and sightseeing.
When I returned to my apartment yesterday after dropping them off at the airport, I wanted to collapse in my chair and take a nap. Or pull out that short story I needed to edit. Or keep hammering away at my SciFi novel. All the writing activities I couldn’t do while my sister was in town. But as I looked around my apartment, it was clear that the only thing I should do was pack.
So I assembled boxes, filled them, and humped them over to the new house. That barely scratched the surface, and I’ll need to repeat the process every day this week. Friday I’m borrowing a truck from a friend to speed things along, and Saturday we have reservations for a moving van to transport all the furniture and appliances. Sunday the apartment needs to be cleaned and vacated. It's only Wednesday and I’m already tired.
Today, as I write this, I’m camped out at the new house (I’m literally sitting on a camp chair in the middle of an empty room), waiting on a roof contractor to inspect the rear porch the previous owner was supposed to have repaired before closing but didn’t. Then there’s the windows guy I need to meet with to review which windows are being replaced. Then the plumber, the painters…
I knew buying a house (a fixer no less) and then all the moving and unpacking and organizing would be time-consuming. Or at least I thought I did. Now that I’m in the thick of things, I realize just how much I underestimated how all consuming this process is. There’s no time for writing, let along blogging.
So if I go MIA for the next few days, you’ll know why. As happy as I am to finally own my own home (and to be able to make it ours), I can’t wait for the dust to settle. I want to be writing. I just have some things to take care of first. A lot of things...