With the last details to be managed before the writer moves, grumpiness greets the day, as sure as sunrise. The realtor for the property next door has left his card in a damage-slit in the front door screen—not exactly a show of respect for the house. His workers’ power tools wake me at 6:15 this morning from another unsteady night’s sleep. They tie ropes to the bird-habitat honeysuckle that my one-time neighbors so lovingly cultivated, and yank the thing out by the roots. And that is not the end of it.
The chaos of boxes is getting to me. Melatonin gives me a hangover and weird, vivid dreams. The gutters need cleaning. The cats need their shots…and Moe has decided to use the new carpet as toilet paper, to scoot-clean places he is too fat and lazy to take care of properly. The car is a concern (although it has not yet given me reason to believe it won’t handle the heavy-laden drive to Denver.)
And I am between books. The most irksome condition of all.
Finishing a book means waiting for friend-readers’ responses. It means facing the realities of having to actually try to sell the thing (and The Spiritkeeper as well, an effort put on hold for the finishing of Everything.) It means trying to find the characters in the new idea. It means finding the greater meaning in the story. It means convincing myself once again that I have something worth saying.
It means being aimless and lonely for a while. The hardest thing of all.
I am a being who cannot do two things at once. Even facing sequential demands—even with the glorious perpetual motion of the chef’s moves of life—I do one thing at a time. I do it fully, with love and attention.
I write. I must. I’m not. I’m moving. And twiddling my thumbs. And trying not to let the day’s thorny beginnings be a portent of anything in my secretly-superstitious mind. And most of all, most deeply, sincerely and achingly of all, waiting for the clap of creative thunder that lifts me high above my self-imposed clouds.
‘The silence’ as Charles Wright wrote ‘that turns the silence off.’