So between books, I had this very good plan. Clean out my office–I mean clean it–files, books, old papers, old manuscripts, notes, office supplies–well you get the point.
And then once I had streamlined the operation, I would move the kids out of their small bedroom into the larger room that was my office. They’d outgrown their shared space, and I was willing to downsize to accomodate them. It all was so magnanamous of me. (Mostly because to go down to the smaller room I would have to get new office furniture. Oh, poor me. Have to go shopping.)
So I dumped a recycle bin full of old notes and handouts and papers. I got rid of probably 100 books. Cleaned out old office supplies. The mismatched envelopes, the jumble of papers, the odd power cords, the broken scanner. And I was feeling so good about it. Downsizing was good! Packed up the rest, painted the office, and moved the kids in.
Then all I had to tackle was cleaning their room, paint it and move in. Sounds easy, huh? After all, I’d just knocked out painting a room for the kids in a Saturday… Then I met my Waterloo. Their room proved to be my Chapter 7. I had to clean and clean the walls. Patch the walls. Remember, room that once housed 2 boys. The paint slid all over the walls, necessitating 2 gallons of Raspberry, not the one I’d planned. Another trip to Home Depot. Another coat of paint. Then another. Another trip to Home Depot for primer for the rest of the room, having learned my lesson from Walls A and B. C and D are going to be Pineapple Fizz and I wasn’t going to let this Fruit filled haven of mine turn into my own personal Smoothie from Hell.
My two days of cleaning and painting have turned into 5. And here I sit, with a half painted office, no furniture and working on the dining room table, surrounded by boxes. And last night, as I was peeling back the blue painter’s tape and the paint was also peeling like a banana up the walls, I wondered at my sanity. I mean, what was I thinking? All this hard work, and I was behind schedule, the Behr paint was being a real bear to get up on the walls (and to get it to stay there) and I just wanted my old office back. My old life. Change was not the golden ticket that I thought it was going to be.
Right then and there I realized how much I have learned by writing books. Books take months to write. They take planning, they take inspiration, they take sweat equity to get through the tough parts. AS I said above, I’d hit Chapter 7. The smack middle of the book where the story stops looking appealing, the characters annoying and the story nothing but a pile of jumbled ideas that make no sense.
And so I did what every writer does when they hit that point. I got up this morning, took a deep breath, and remembered why I’d wanted to do this so badly. Because the boys needed the space. Because I wanted to clean out and have a smaller haven. A spot in this house that was my girlie bit of heaven in this land of men that I live in. I remembered that bit of inspiration I had in April, and that wonderful feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you are on to something. So with a roller in hand, I put up the primer I hadn’t planned on, and continued to say good things to my new office.