We’ve been in Virginia for almost two weeks. After the initial frenzy of packing, selling our house, moving many hundreds of miles, and unpacking many (many, many, many) boxes, life has settled down into a less frantic pace. Instead of trying to do it all and cramming everything into every hour of the day, I’ve decided to pace myself. So, everyday, we do some school (get in math and language arts, ramping up on history, science, and social studies), unpack or organize a little, venture out into our new neighborhood, whether it’s a trip to the grocery store or library or a walk around the neighborhood.
Moving to a new location requires a steep learning curve, and that’s not just for finding my way outside the house. It holds true for indoors, too. My mind and my body are still used to the layout of our old home, and I often find myself reaching for a phantom cabinet or looking for something in the entirely wrong place. Having to think about where the dishes go makes it a lot harder for me to drift off into story land they way I’ve been used to.
Case in point: My bedroom.
Back in our old house, D. and I had the smallest bedroom. In this one, we have the biggest. It’s embarrassingly big and it has five (yes, FIVE doors) leading out of it. One door goes to a walk-in closet, another to a private den/study, one to the corridor, one to a bathroom and one to the laundry area. Strangely enough, the bathroom and the laundry area are in one long narrow room, so that when you’re off to take a shower you have to remember to close both doors. Then there’s the fact that the owners of this house didn;t seem to believe in towel bars (but they believed in two sinks and space galore under them), so one has to wander around disconsolately with a wet towel afterwards (I usually put mine on my clothes drying rack in the laundry part of the space).
We’re so unused to this place that we spend far too long doing something as simple as getting showered and changed for the day, as we traverse the Big Room multiple times from bathroom to closet to laundry area to bathroom to back to the bedroom. My husband confesses that the other day he took three trips to the laundry basket just to get his dirty clothes put away.
All this to say, my head is full of “Where’s the cheese grater?” and “Where do I hang my wet towel?” and not about stories. But I’m beginning to feel that writing itch again (can’t suppress that for too long) and getting back into the game with a revision on Rainbird.
What about you? If you’ve been swamped by life, how do you ease back into writing?