This is the second night I’ve spent in the new house. It took me longer than it should have to make the transition from the old farmhouse, which had its hooks in me—despite the fact that there was no heat, mice, odd smells from the basement, water trouble, and all the other hits that come from a place that’s seen 100 years, and needs some renovation. I’m a bit superstitious. I might not have been comfortable down there, but I thought that it was the only way I could finish my book. Stay in a spot you know, so the brain doesn’t need to transition to a new location. Because it can take awhile to wiggle into a new writing space, right?
Oh, I was so full of it. If only I had moved up here weeks ago.
My brain feels as though it has just been released from thirty years of hard labor. I’m still deadline upset—but not stalled. I’m feeling truly productive for the first time in a long while, and I realize that the space I was working in was affecting me negatively—even though I didn’t realize it. A writer can write anywhere—and I have—but sometimes you get stuck in a trench. You forget that you’re a flexible, ever-adaptable, elemental, human being—and that change is good. Staying fresh in every way is vital.
So, here’s to my new office. This is what I began writing to this morning, along with a symphony of early spring bird song. Today is going to be a lovely day.
