And they're coming soon!
I'm so excited to open the curtains, but it'll be just a little longer. What I can tell you is that what I thought was going to be a month coming, looks a lot more like it's going to MAYBE early April and might even roll out next week.
In the meantime, the folks who kept the bills paid around here have been saints of patience while tragedies in my life were going off like microwavable popcorn in the last half of the second minute. I'm going to focus on some of the rewards I've promised them like the "Inside Scoop" Newsletter and an early access article.
So Rhapsody is better. I'm not in the middle of a medical crisis. And copy of The Muppet Christmas Carol is missing. Clearly, it's time to get back to writing. However, that turns out to be a lot harder because of all this other stuff that has cluttered up my schedule in the meantime. I didn't just have five empty hours a day waiting for me like "Insert Writing Here." I have to go and get rid of things to make room for it, sweeping my calendar clear like it's a desk of bills and I'm Steve Martin in The Jerk.
What? Too '70s for you? My 46-year-old references aren't "hip" enough for you?
Well anyway, I sat down with my priorities and my calendar and I made some really hard choices.
The 7-10 Split (Finding Four to Five Hours a Day—Not Twelve)
First let me start by saying my days will be shorter now. I'm not trying to find 8-16 hours a day to write. Even my overachiever ass was having trouble with that. The vortex of writing noisily slurped up everything and swallowed it down….uh….but not in the fun way. Noisy fun slurping would be so much better.
I'm in a very different place than I was five years ago. That place is Concord. Which is nothing like Richmond. (Haha, little Bay Area humor there.)
Okay but really though. Cancer. Miscarriages. Death (not mine). These things make you look at life a little differently. Even before I met Rhapsody, I was starting to realize that I could pay the bills writing only if I had absolutely no work/life balance and my "innie" worked twelve-, fourteen-, or even sixteen-hour days. Sometimes I would wake up, wander downstairs and spend a whole day on an article without ever changing out of my pajamas. It was high pressure and low reward.
I technically made ends meet, but only technically. There was an AWFUL lot of extra money watching The Contrarian that paid for brand-name peanut butter and Prada paperclips.
True story: I ended up in Urgent Care after a series of sleepwalking incidents and the doctor got about five questions in before it was obvious even to me that I needed more rest, more sleep, and less stress. I actually got told I was going to get heart disease and die early if I didn't learn to chill the fuck out. Now I pay attention to my sleep hygiene so I don't wake up binge-watching Iron Fist Season 2 (~shudder~).
But something funny happened when I forced a work/life balance—particularly one that involved a little bit of physical activity. You would think the less I wrote, the less I would get written, but that's not how it shook out. I started to notice that I could do the same amount of writing in less time. Give me sixteen hours, and I'd finish up around 15:55. Give me twelve hours, I'd finish up around 11:55. Give me six hours, and I'd finish up around 5:55.
I mean EVENTUALLY I would run out of time before I finished. I can't write a five-hundred-page novel in an afternoon just because there's a stopwatch ticking off the seconds. But my productivity almost always involved absolutely exactly as much procrastination as the job could handle, whether that was five hours or five days.
Not only that, but my head felt clearer after a good walk and between that and the way the smaller container of a deadline "put a lid on the pot" I was able to get a lot more done in a lot less time. After about four hours, I reached a point of diminishing returns. (Or, to be more accurate to my ADHD ass, it was only under deadline with four hours REMAINING that I achieved a point of maximum increasing returns.) So I started trying to exercise more and more and even took up running.
Then I fell in love, moved, had a miscarriage (well, Rhapsody did) and got cancer, my liver blew up, Rhapsody's boss was killed in a robbery, we got evicted by a landlord who wanted to flip the house we were in but not pay a relocation fee, and then chronic pain struck DURING the move and didn't go away until surgery. Good times.
After cancer, I decided I wanted a whole new thing. Not a change from writing—I still want to write—an addition. An "equal partner" in my career. A yin to my yang. A Bert to my Ernie. A donkey to my Shrek. A Chewbacca to my… okay, you get the point. I still want to write, but I wanted to stop living my financial life so close to the edge (even though I was technically "making it"), and I wanted a second job (not a side gig, but a full 50%, half-and-half job) that was as FAR AWAY from sitting in a chair as I could possibly get.
I also had some other guidance and direction that I speak of in my other blog. My calling to serve The Morrigan became clearer, and one of the things I was called to do was create a container from which I could do the work of being a priest. Everything from training as a death doula to continuing to be a loud and obnoxious writer to martial arts. One of those things was to help people find fitness (and try to make it as accessible as possible, but I'll get into that elsewhere). So I went back to school, got a Certified Personal Trainer certificate, took my NASM test, and took on clients.
So now I spend time working out and teaching others to work out. I write MUCH faster in a lot less time. I still need to find time to work, but I only need to find FOUR HOURS.
Will I write a little less? Probably.
Will I be happier and more well balanced. Almost certainly.
Will I binge watch Season Two of Iron Fist ever again? Absofuckinglutely not.
Easy Changes
The first round of changes wasn't really going to be much effort. They just took a little recalibration. I spent a long time with a lot of buffer time between activities just because you never knew when plans were going to explode and a day was going to take a sharp right turn into Whatthefuckersville. By eight in the morning, a day of classes and work could turn into staying home to nurse Rhapsody through a panic attack, a handhold to the doctor, or a step-up to take care of the kids because the pain was just too great.
I spent tons of time on frivolous phone games and time wasters just trying to regulate my nervous system from the last panic or crisis and keep myself from getting too deep into anything before the next one cropped up.
But Rhapsody had surgery and is feeling much better. Last weekend she danced all night and then woke up and walked around the neighborhood for three hours. The grief has faded to a dull ache. She is a little worried about what's next since it's been four years of needing to get through [the next thing] in order to survive, but these are like the background radiation of generalized anxiety, and not a special version of pain or grief.
And my own nervous system's response to that unrelenting couple of years is starting to calm. I don't need an hour to wake up in the morning just so I can face the day. I don't need to keep the afternoon open any longer because I might need 90 minutes in the middle to do school pick up. I don't need to be "on call," and that means I don't need to be playing phone games for hours or just giving my fourth rewatch of Supernatural a thousand-yard stare. My trauma response isn't hair trigger, ever ready for another several hours of being in a support role and then a couple more of regulating myself.
The problem is that I did this for years. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Adaptations turned into habits. And habits turned into lifestyle. Eventually you stop trying to jump right back on the horse because what is the point? So now, after years of taking it slow because it might blow up, I'm used to moving at snail pace, and it's hard to hit the ground running. I have to make a conscious effort to crack my overcautious cadence open and undo it all for a little bit of focus and urgency. But if I can tighten things up again, I'll gain a lot of time in moments here and there just by being a little more disciplined about how I use my time, a little more determined to get some work done, and less distractible by things I needed for the last few years to calm me.
Estimated time gain: 3-4 hours/week
Tougher Changes
So once the easy changes were identified, it was time to really get to work. When a schedule is bleeding, there are usually two reasons for it. 1) You're spending time on things that aren't a priority. 2) You have no idea how much time you're spending on anything—priority or not.
In my case, both these things were true.
So step one was to track where my time was going and step two was to make a list of priorities. These are MY priorities. Yours might be different, include more family time, include more downtime… whatever.
Priorities
(*A lot of The Morrigan Priest Duties are double dips with other things. I can write a social justice article and it's priest work and writing, for example. [The Morrigan is big on social justice.] Or when I go to the Unitarian Universalist Church, it is because the pagan community—even here in the very woo-woo, alternative Bay Area—is pretty scattered, disorganized, and largely into their own thing rather than community, so it is the compromise I have made to find a community of like-minded, multi-denominational, queer-friendly, leftist-activist folks to be of service to AS a priest while I begin the work of decades building something local and intentional.)
What combing through my calendar this carefully meant was that I needed to make sure my time reflected my priorities. Not just a matter of not wasting time, but was I spending a lot of time on something far down the list from higher priorities that were getting neglected? Here are a couple of examples:
1-My service to my community through the UU Church is important to me, but if I sign up for every march, vigil, sit in, "know your rights" class, volunteer opportunity, food distribution across their LGBTQ+, POC, and help-for-the-unhoused activism, I would be doing that a couple of hours a day and three to five hours each day on weekends. That's wonderful, but I have other things I want to be doing as much and sometimes more than church activism, so I need to spread those things out and go to one or two a week instead of every one I get an email about. I want to go, be seen as reliable, learn to organize, and also do a lot of other things too.
2- I want to run really long distances—half and full marathons—but I'm going to have to give those up. They take months of training and involve more and more hours of running and cross-training every week until they eat 10-15 hours a week of time. I had to make the tough choice that the time investments for me to run those kinds of races were going to take too much time away from things I want to do more. I'll stick to 5k's, 5 miles, and the occasional long run of 8-10 miles and set my goals within that container. Maybe someday I can push for longer distances.
There are a half a dozen or so more choices that were like this—they're activities I want to do but that are clearly down the priority scale. Now that I'm writing, SOMETHING has to get bumped, and if I'm not deliberate about what it is, I'll end up scratching my head at where the time has gone.
Estimated time gain: 1-2 hours/day
The Really REALLY Hard Choices
So that left nothing but really hard choices.
And I mean REALLY hard choices.
Up till now was Kirby's Dream Land and now we were on to Dark Souls.
Things I wanted to do held up against other things I also wanted to do…and one of them HAD to go. The stuff that stings to admit you're not in a place to do. The stuff that HURTS to give up. It's not enough to say, "Hey I want to be a writer more than a death doula, so that training will have to wait until I have a little more free time." No, that's child's play compared to this shit. These are choices that require a careful examination of my priorities and the most strategic way to serve them, and the grudging admission that I can't do everything I want to do. That required just acknowledging that my time was going towards lower priority shit. This requires strategy and planning.
For example, I wanted to stay in school. There are more fitness certificates I want to get to be the best certified person trainer I can be, and I may want to get a nutrition certificate as well. Eventually I want to open my own community outreach gym/martial arts studio/woo-woo center that is accessible to lower- income folks, and I can imagine an associates in kinesiology will help immeasurably with that. I like the routine that classes bring to a week. I even just like BEING a student. Taking my work to the library or cafeteria and working in a change of environment. But right now, that's just six hours a week I don't have. I've got the certificate I need to take on clients and make money RIGHT NOW. So school isn't urgent compared to other things I want to do.
And I had to admit that right now was not a good time for high-intensity dating. Technically, I have the TIME to date. But it's not just a matter of holes in the calendar where dates could go. There's so much energy expended in capital-R Relationships™. Particularly as you start to get past the "whatever's offered" stage and talk about what each of you wants. That hypothetical person would have to slide effortlessly into my life (local [but truly], kitchen table, experienced at non-monogamy, etc.), and I'm feeling pretty picky right now. I don't need a relationship to feel full and content. So while I'm technically open to the possibility, I have a lot of other things that are pulling my focus right now. Anyway, it's not like I wouldn't bang half my friends if they wanted to. That's a lot less emotional investment, is still pretty fun, and fits my life better at the moment.
Dropping school (for now at least) and giving up dating (for now at least) are huge. They're both things I really want to be doing, but they need to be sacrificed if I'm going to get back to writing. They put a lot of time back on my schedule.
Estimated time gain: 10-15 hours/week
The Final Answer
I ended up with at least three hours every day and big chunks of time on Thursday and Friday. Weekends are configurable but now include enough time to get some writing done. My Monday-Wednesday are going to be a little light in the writing department. I'll need to make sure my big articles are getting written between Thursday and Sunday.
It wasn't easy, but writing is worth it. And if you are trying to make writing The Thing You Do™--or even just An Important Thing You Do™, at some point….eventually…you're going to have to do something LIKE this. We all have to check in once in a while and see if our priorities match up with our activities. I can't tell you what YOU will give up and what you will keep, but maybe my process can help you streamline the things that are not priorities in your life. Most things in world out there are literally made to be just a little too addictive and creep in without you noticing.
But writing is worth the effort.
If you're writing AS a full-time job—or if you want to be—it probably takes you full-time-job amounts of time to get the writing done that you need to. One of the strangest misconceptions writers seem to labor under about making money writing (one that I am constantly calling out here) is that one can make Full Time Salary™ with Weekend Warrior™ effort. You can get published. You can finish your book. You can PUBLISH your book. You can get paid—maybe even enough to pay a bill every month with the fruits of your wordsmithery labor. But you won't be taking summers in the French Riviera if you don't work hard and almost every day. If you're a household name, you might be able to rest on your laurels for a few years making asynchronous income, but I fucking PROMISE you that you also didn't get to be a household name by working ten hours a week.
And let me tell you, when you're not writing full-time, other stuff seeps in. (And, of course, though I tell this as a cautionary tale and for the sake of transparency in my process, I should point out that by "you," I mean ME….but I probably also mean you, so be careful.) I never stopped writing every day (another drum I bang all the time), but boy did I drop off of trying to get posts up and sit down for ten to twelve hours and edit and do all the hard work of the space in between writing for pleasure and publication. I just made sure I was keeping the habit so that the tools of process (and maybe a few tools of craft) would still be waiting for me when I came back.
Most are.
A few are stiff and rusty.
A couple I'm going to have to start over on.
It could be worse. And if I hadn't written every day, it WOULD be worse. And if I'd written more, it would be better, but that's where your own life balance and priorities come in. I wasn't willing to tell someone I loved (going through the worst thing they'd ever been through in their life) that they needed to find someone else to talk to about it. Maybe you make different choices.
Now…..I am all too well aware that I have been writing a long line of "Here's what went wrong in the LAST few months…" posts spanning all the way back to 2021. Miscarriages. Cancer. Terrible breakups. Liver disease. Death of boss-friends. Evictions. Debilitating chronic pain. Multiple surgeries and recovery—both me and Rhapsody. Tons of pain and anxiety. I don't want to bore you with another post like that. In the words of Mrs. Landingham: "So you're having a little bit of a decade."
And it wasn't all bad. In there I fell in love a couple of times and took some trips and got to pivot completely on my career by going back to school for a year to get a certificate.
But in that time of writing much much less, other stuff oozed into all the cracks…and not in the fun way.
It wasn't like I ever said, "Hey, I'm going to do this other thinginstead of getting back to writing."
[Okay, actually, that's not true. There was that year of community college where I very deliberately said, "I don't want to take three years to become a certified personal trainer, so I'm going to do this all in one year even if it eats up some my writing time—which holy hells did it ever.]
But other than that very minor incident—hardly worth mentioning really—with the nine months off, I didn't ever deliberately sacrifice my writing time to other things. It wasn't like I was making a choice. It just sort of happened. I took on minor things in the cracks and crannies, since I was doing a lot less writing anyway. A commitment here. A diversion there. A weekly hike. A daily run. "Yeah, I can take the kids to school every morning." "Sure, I can help out with that." A sense of how much I could put on my plate that wasn't based on needing hours a day to write.
One more thing.
One more thing.
One more thing.
Mostly I was sick or in support mode…or sometimes both. Hospitalized. Doing chores. Running errands. Helping process grief or chronic pain. And it wasn't all bad either—sometimes I watched Daredevil because Rhapsody was tired of Love Is Blind and we were both home. Stuff just kind of dribbled into my schedule and once it got in there, it became VERY hard to get it back out. In the last year, I repeatedly noticed that on days where I wanted to write—where I was really excited about it—but there just wasn't time. I was running from thing to thing to thing and then my day would end. And every week I said "Okay, I'm going to be better on the weekend when I have time." And every weekend I would run ragged after the kids and say, "Okay, I'm going to be better during the week when the kids are gone and I have a routine."
Months of this.
And loved ones…. Loved ones. Oh dear sweet loved ones. They ARE loved—and they love you, I promise—but they can smell free time like a shark with a drop of blood. And if you're not wrapping your arms around that time, declaring it writing time instead of "free" time, and growling at them when they get close, like Rocco when you reach towards his bowl for that bacon the kids slipped him…you're going to have that precious time taken away by the most well-intentioned, well-meaning, deeply-loving, sincere people in your lives who just don't understand why it is that you can't do this ONE thing for them during all that "free" time you have.
Suddenly, I'm ready to write and champing at the bit to write and humping the WALLS to write, and my schedule is saying, "When, Chris? When would this writing happen?"
I'm a writer. I write. I have to write. If I don't write, it feels like a part of me is broken. So finding the time I'd lost to so many other things was the highest priority of February, and I wouldn't rest until I figured it out. I know a lot of people talk about writing in these terms, but when you take a look at their actual lives, they don't get much writing done. And I was about to be one of those people, speaking in florid, purple prose about how much I loved writing while doing little of it.
And so I took to my schedule. Every reclaimed hour its own battle of wills and Tetris'ed logistics.
I'm not going to tell you what matters in your own life or what might be more important than writing in a moment or in a week or in a month or in a year. That's for you to decide. I've heard people tell me there's no time to write when they play 8 hours of video games a day, and they're clearly kidding themselves, and I've seen people keep at it every day but the scheduled date of their own abdominal surgery and they're clearly more dedicated than me. Most everything else is in the liminal space between those two extremes, and I'm not here to judge what makes a "real" writer. Real is someone who writes.
What I can tell you is that if you're not writing daily—or very very close to it—you probably won't be able to quit your day job. And that on a long enough timeline, your priorities WILL become self-evident.
If you write roughly a page a day for 20 years—which is a reasonable pace for well revised and edited work—and take a year off to help a loved one through cancer, your body of work will be 6935 pages instead of 7200.
If, on the other hand, you let paycheck-earning work, family, and leisure time take precedence (and I'm not saying you shouldn't—we all live life according to our values and priorities), and only manage to come to the page six or seven weekends a year, and write the same page every day, then your body of work in the same 20 years will be only 240 pages.
At the beginning of February, I hit a crisis point. There just wasn't enough time for all of it and I HAD to write. I tried to add writing and four units into my already-busy schedule and the whole thing collapsed like a lung in a medical drama. And I had to have my Coming to Jesus The Morrigan moment.
OKAY SO WHAT WERE THE ACTUAL CHOICES???
On to part 2
Last year, my editor and a coauthor, both of whom are fans of Ted Lasso, published the third of three puzzle books. If you like word games and like Ted Lasso, they are a lot of fun. The coauthor supports a charity called Steps of Faith, and through that group (and a couple of steps I'm leaving out), met Jason Sudeikis—the man behind the Ted Lasso series. Jason autographed all three of the puzzle books and graciously allowed himself to be photographed doing that for the books' promotion.
Lift it Like Lasso Volume Three
The coauthor that I mentioned also has a blog where you can check out her work with Steps of Faith and the way she ended up with copies of her own book autographed by the creator of Ted Lasso. Enjoy.
- My journey as a certified personal trainer
- Writing about Health and Fitness (generally)
- Writing about Running (my posts specifically about running and running goals)
- Election stuff
- Polyamory (Ethical Nonmonogamy)
- The Morrigan and Pagan Priesthood
- Buy Me Lunch Answers [My deep dive into identity intersections and what labels (and going beyond labels) means to me]
- Reviewish [My always behind the curve reviews of media—some of it woefully outdated]
And old favorites like:
- Social Justice Bard
- Personal Updates
- And of course Writing About Writing
I know if you've been paying attention at all for about the last oh….three years at least, you know that a lot has been going on. I don't mean like 2016 a lot with breakups and rising fascism. That WAS a lot, but it turned out that was a lot in the way that England is "cold" when you're coming from Barbados. There's still Siberia to go. I'm talking 2022. When cancer, miscarriage, death, eviction, and other stuff started landing. One disaster after another just kept pouring in like distant relatives at the holidays passing off fruitcake. Let's not dwell on that. It sucked. I got knocked down. I got up. It sucked more. I got knocked down more. I got up more. Rinse. Repeat. Here I am now feeling Sisyphus-caliber shredded…but like metaphorically, you understand. You push a rock all day, you get pretty swol.
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| 2025: Coming to a blogger near you! |
I am metaphorically swol AF.
After cancer, death, miscarriage, evictions, and more, I started to realize that what I wanted to do was NOT just go back to exactly what I had been doing—pedalling my flying machine ever faster writing about writing just to make ends almost barely meet. My entire year back in school to become a certified personal trainer was exactly because I couldn't keep doing twelve- and fifteen-hour-days in my chair, seven days a week, just to barely scrape out the bills. I want to write. I want to write about WRITING. But that's not all I want to do with every day. There are going to be other parts of my life too.
One of those things, nontrivially, is the fact that I have become a priest of The Morrigan. My calling involves duties that go beyond writing and broaden the scope of the writing that I am already doing. I will be doing the work, but primarily I'm a writer, so even as I learn to incorporate divination and death doula-ing into my practice, I will also write about those insights and my—occasionally alarming—spiritual journey. Yes, there will be Social Justice Bard posts, personal updates. If anything, my duties as a priest to a deity steeped in sovereignty and battle will necessitate stepping things up on the social justice front. Yes, there will be those weird goofy posts where Writing About Writing is somehow a place with a weird ass cast of characters. And yes, there will be deep thoughts about writing itself somehow shoehorned into a 12 item listicle for the perfect clickbait…
…but I also want to write more about nonmonogamy, my own explorations through identity, my OWN fitness and health struggles, including pushing fifty but trying to be a better runner, and even the reviews on popular media I got into right before the wheels came off the bus. And fuck, I spent a year getting this personal-training skill set….I might as well write about it.
Everything will be labeled (so you can skip past the parts you're less into), and you might see a deluge of "Menu level" posts in the coming weeks as I set up the pages that will link out to everything that is to come.
This process will form the backbone of a new chapter here at Writing About Writing. We're moving forward, but we're not going exactly where we were before. The train will still stop at all the old and familiar destinations, but we've added a few more stops along the way.
All aboard.
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| High speed rail will be discussed in the nonmonogamy section. Oh wait…that's high speed railING. Carry on. |
**types, "So I know I said I'd be back but this thing happened…"**
**hits undo until all text is gone**
**types, "I'm not going to say 'I'm back' but I'm kind of ready for…"**
**close window—click box that says "Ignore" when the computer says changes weren't saved**
**sighs**
You know what….? (You don't, because it's really random, so I'm going to tell you.) Entire religions are formed around causation/correlation superstitious crap like this. And while my pagan priest ass is the last person to be giving the Spock-brow to some questionable beliefs, I'm not going to live my life in fear of telling you all what I am planning to write next because I think that only by keeping all my hopes and dreams to myself and never being optimistic that maybe maybe MAYBE I won't be pack ravaged by dingos.
Besides, it doesn't really seem to be working. I either announce that I'm back and disaster strikes, or I hold very very still and quiet, and disaster strikes anyway. So I might as well make a spectacle out of the sheer absurdity of not even getting the full sentence of "I'm ba—" out of my mouth before a "Luck of the Irish" neon sign falls from the ceiling and lops off my right arm or something.
I'm also not going to apologize. It's gotten ridiculous. Bless everyone who stuck with me on Patreon through the last few years as life had fun kicking me further down the stairs every time I stood up, but four YEARS worth of "Hey, I was just about to write and then this NEW thing in my life exploded like it was….well pretty much ANYTHING in a Transformers movie (anything that's not Optimus Prime)" is getting old. I'm hearing myself and thinking "Oh my fuck, Chris, will you SHUT UP!" I can write through pear-shaped—I have written through pear-shaped—I DO write through pear-shaped— but holy FUCK have the limits of that ever found me.
I spent this summer moving. Not one of those planned moves. Not a joyous upgrade (although I do like the new place). Not a carefully planned move with a careful execution.
No…our landlord decided he wanted us gone. And since the city I'm in adopted rent control and a relocation fee (so that shitty landlords who want to jack up the rent can't just evict their tenants every couple of years), he tried to make it an at-fault eviction. Oh how he tried! We were in compliance, so nothing stuck, and we learned our rights REALLY quickly, so we knew we could have fought, dragged it out for months, and even probably ended up getting the relocation fee and maybe a countersuit.
But Rhapsody didn't have a protracted fight in her. You have to be ready to have people threaten you, to call you names, to tell you all the awful things they're going to do, and to initiate those awful things. You have to be ready to be blamed for everything and told what a horrible and irresponsible and wicked person you are. (And since in two years, we hadn't gotten the landlord to acknowledge our repeated attempts to get me on the lease, it all had to be done while I lived in a room two towns over.) You have to be ready to come home every day to an official notification on your door demanding your contrition and telling you you have days to move. Rhapsody is a gentle human—one of the kindest I've ever met. She's barely over grief and dealing with health and parenting issues and a half a dozen other issues that make life challenging. She's trying to find a job in a field she retrained in just last year. She just didn't have the time and energy for all of it.
Every step is suddenly wading through oatmeal. You can't just pop the rent check in the mail five days ahead of time—you have to drive it twenty minutes to the lawyer's office as a money order, or landlord-fuckspork might pretend he never got it. You have to start looking for places because who knows if he's going to throw something at the wall that sticks.
We ducked the worst of the legal bullshit (the asshole's FIRST move was hiring a lawyer), and traded a neutral reference to our new place for a month's notice.
And then the move began. It's very different when you don't know it's coming—when you can't plan it, prep for it, get some boxes, round up a strapping friend who likes pizza, get your kids to pack some boxes ahead of time of all those toys they are totally, absolutely going to play with again. It's also different when you're moving a whole house—I can't really remember the last time I moved more than a room. Packing, unpacking. Finding movers. Figuring out when to move. You end up with piles of stuff in the new place because you need the boxes to go back to the old place and get another load (because you didn't have time to stockpile boxes because it was all so sudden), so you just dump a box out where it's not right in the way and keep going. There's trashing what can't be given away and no one wants to move—sometimes including furniture. Cleaning the old place. Unpacking. Organizing. The whole time, your life didn't slow down because you weren't able to SCHEDULE this move—it just HAPPENED, so your calls and dates and visits and trips are all still on the calendar. It didn't help that Rhapsody was having a bad flare of chronic pain and while Treble and Clef can be a little helpful, most of the heavy lifting (in this case literally) fell to me.
From beginning to end, it was like six weeks of absolute, unmitigated bullshit.
And you know (you don't, so I'm going to tell you)…after a four fucking YEARS of being like, "Oka,y NOW I am obviously done with this cavalcade of tragedies and can get back to writing—oh I appear to be throwing up blood/getting evicted/having alien spiders hump my mouth/whatever it is THIS month," I am so fucking ready to get back to my creative life. I don't even care about "productive" at this point. I mean I CARE because that's my paycheck, and I'm going to end up having to be a human statue on Fisherman's Warf if I can't get my income back up to snuff, but really, I just want to write again.
Back. Not back. It doesn't even matter. I'm just going to do what I do. This summer sucked. And this year was hard (and I'll talk about that in another post). And the past four years have been this horrifying nightmare. But we're moved and even though I still have that last level of organizing where you're like, "Yeah it goes here now, but I think I want it to LIVE somewhere else when I have the time," I'm not going to wait another minute to get back to my creative life.
