That’s the thing about emotions: They are never the same, one day to the next.

This time last week, I was bent out of shape about the Unemployment Insurance counselor who, after pulling up a half-dozen listings for jobs that have nothing to do with the work of my life, told me “I have a degree in Journalism from [a local college]. It took me 10 years to find work. I have no patience with someone sitting around waiting for a writer job in Springfield.” The small-minded mean-ness of that statement stuck with me. My writing took a hit; my worksearch morale plummeted.

Which is one reason I am glad to have the other house. Not as much of an incongruity as it might seem.

I am, by necessity, spending more time at the river than in town. Having the web at my fingertips around the clock, now, (and, of course, a phone) means that my job search is not bound by proximity to the city or the need to sit in the front yard to borrow someone else’s internet. The search for work can happen any time, on any day (and btw, to the counselor-whose-name-rhymes-with-stitch: My search is national, not local). And it does.

And the writing. Ah, yes.

The house in Republic is lovely, but its view of fenced yard and neighbor’s  house looming above it never really spoke to my heart. The place was never really mine.

The view out the window here on the  river helps to calm me. The seduction of the hills and stonefaced cliffs, the fog on water, the green, the birds, the critters…it opens the door to words. The work search and the writing alike both look fresh from the vantage of this place.

But the rhythm of the work—transition has taken some adjustment.

As I’ve written in this blogspace, the contrast between workday and writing time helped me force my focus. Writing at the river has lost some of its urgency, knowing that there is more time for everything. I have made up for that by sitting with the laptop all day, every day. All-day-every-day probably isn’t the answer. No one can be in love with such intensity 24 hours a day. It’s exhausting.

Yet, I know that the rhythms will return. I know that the concentration will come back. I know the focus will re-focus. This writer will find the old writer in herself—or maybe a whole new one—as she figures out the new tempi of life in a place that is still neither here nor there.

In the meantime, I can still watch Clancy and bold lizards face off…

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