I’m not supposed to be blogging. I’m really not. At all.
Yet, here I am. Again.
Why, you ask? Because I’m a writer. What does that mean, you ask?
Being a writer means I have control over how I arrange my words on paper. It means I have an overwhelming desire to write. A lot. What it doesn’t mean, at least for this red-headed chick, is that I can rid my writer’s brain of a thought once it settles in with a glass of wine and a blankie, like it owns me.
If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, it’s that once this gust of a word storm in my head occurs – it. can’t. be. stopped.
This torrid tale begins with a desk debacle. A where is Karen going to write today? debacle. I started writing at the cute little glass top desk I found at a consignment shop two years ago. It fit my dream. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.
As I wrote I quickly amassed seventy-five, eight by eleven pages that ran the gamut from the preface to the end. Realizing my dilemma, I developed a sixteen folder system that efficiently kept all my writing on various subjects at my fingertips.
What does this have to do with anything, you ask?
My tiny little desk no longer held my folders, lap top, iPad and reference books. It no longer held my dream. So I adapted as best as I could. I erected an old card table; one that wore messy painting oops and wobbly legs. When I looked at it I was reminded of our journey down here…wobbly legs and all. This also led me to affirm once again, that in the midst of great uncertainty: anything and everything is possible.
And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.
But every time we had a showing the messy card table had to be put away and then gotten back out. Writers are strange creatures. We are also creatures of habit. At least this one is. The temporariness of my other table bugged me. As whispers of OCD filled the air.
Feeling frustrated, I took all my writing toys and moved upstairs to our large pub table in the media room adjacent to Sam’s office.
And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Another hundred some pages.
I wrote the death and grief chapters. I wrote the ending. I even wrote a surprise after the end. I wrote the preface. But still…something felt off.
There is no door between me and my husband’s office. Uh huh. Now. He’s not home very often. BUT. Writers are cave dwellers. We need a space no one has breathed their words into. It diffuses our creativity the way kryptonite kills Superman’s mojo. I felt like a guest in someone’s house. How could I dream mighty words if I didn’t feel at home inside?
There’s still so much work to do. Probably the most important work of all.
Due to the temporariness of our almost four year sojourn down here – what with the eighty boxes in the garage and another forty in the attic, things have always felt temporary here.
In the media room upstairs there is a DR Dimes table that used to be our dining table, just sitting there all by its lonesome. It’s a big, beautiful, tiger maple top table. HELLO!! (This makes me think of Adele and how I can’t wait to go to her concert in October). Ahem. The table. Its legs are currently black which messes with the feng shui color scheme of my office. Sorry. Eventually I’ll paint the legs charcoal gray. The interior decorator that lives next door to my writers brain deems it so.
Today my sweet husband moved the table downstairs to my office. I can think of nothing better than writing on a table that lived and breathed in Maryland. My memory place will feel the love and laughter that sat around this beautiful table. It will be a safe haven for my words until I’m ready to release them out loud. My writing home until we move back to Maryland.
On Monday I will sit myself down and dream mighty words once again. And while I’m positive this table that comfortably seats six, will be able to house all my writing needs – I know it will never be big enough to hold all my dreams.
Dreams can’t be held. Only released into the Universe so they can breathe.
ps. Of course once I’m all settled into my desk, we’ll probably get an offer on the house. wink wink