THE CLUTTER ON TOP OF THE PILES
You see, I am finding it rather difficult to write for extended periods of time these days. Until recently I found it a pleasure to sit on front of this monitor tapping away at the little white keys for hours on end, but now, it has become a strangled process. It is not that I love the words any less, or that I have ceased to find happiness in puzzling for half an hour over the perfect turn of phrase. It is more a matter of changes in my environment in anticipation of the new house. The clutter grows thicker by the hour – or so it seems – and there seems ever so little point in doing much about it.
For example, last week, after a bike ride with the wife, it no longer seemed necessary to put the bikes back into the small storage closet off of the living room. Thus, we pulled the dining room table out another two feet so they would fit between said table and the wall in the room that triples as entry hall, office, and dining room [when we have guests, for we more commonly eat in the living room/guest bedroom/den].
Hence, I have the growing feeling that the walls are inching closer and closer still. While this is doing wonders for my desire to be in the new house – as well as my long-standing, generalized fear that the universe is slowly imploding upon me – it seems to do little for my ability to write. But there is, happily, a slightly too blue room upstairs in the new house that will serve grandly as a writing room/ studio/office for the wife and me – the library will be downstairs. And there, I say to myself, perhaps quixotically, volumes shall be written; this space will be everything that the current entry hall/office/dining room is not. This room just off the top of the stairs with its door to the second floor sunroom will inspire the elegant prose that remains constricted in this ever shrinking room with its perpetually spreading molehills of things, which I am sure are destined to become mountains before the week is through. There, in the blue room, I shall write. But, for the moment I really must flee to the bedroom ere that stack of recently purchased vintage crockery finally makes the leap towards my head that currently seems inevitable.
[Note: The picture associated with this post has been omitted as it is simply too terrifying. Get back, you damnable crockery!]
P.S. In lieu of the photo that normally would have accompanied this post, but that has been omitted out of concern for your well-being [both physical and mental], the wife has begged my indulgence that I post the rather lovely photograph of two out of the three rather lovely deer that she saw during her afternoon’s ramblings.
For example, last week, after a bike ride with the wife, it no longer seemed necessary to put the bikes back into the small storage closet off of the living room. Thus, we pulled the dining room table out another two feet so they would fit between said table and the wall in the room that triples as entry hall, office, and dining room [when we have guests, for we more commonly eat in the living room/guest bedroom/den].
Hence, I have the growing feeling that the walls are inching closer and closer still. While this is doing wonders for my desire to be in the new house – as well as my long-standing, generalized fear that the universe is slowly imploding upon me – it seems to do little for my ability to write. But there is, happily, a slightly too blue room upstairs in the new house that will serve grandly as a writing room/ studio/office for the wife and me – the library will be downstairs. And there, I say to myself, perhaps quixotically, volumes shall be written; this space will be everything that the current entry hall/office/dining room is not. This room just off the top of the stairs with its door to the second floor sunroom will inspire the elegant prose that remains constricted in this ever shrinking room with its perpetually spreading molehills of things, which I am sure are destined to become mountains before the week is through. There, in the blue room, I shall write. But, for the moment I really must flee to the bedroom ere that stack of recently purchased vintage crockery finally makes the leap towards my head that currently seems inevitable.
[Note: The picture associated with this post has been omitted as it is simply too terrifying. Get back, you damnable crockery!]
P.S. In lieu of the photo that normally would have accompanied this post, but that has been omitted out of concern for your well-being [both physical and mental], the wife has begged my indulgence that I post the rather lovely photograph of two out of the three rather lovely deer that she saw during her afternoon’s ramblings.
1 Comments:
Re: your sense that your physical surroundings are affecting your ability to write effectively -- pull out a copy of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own and start reading. It's worth looking into -- if only for Woolf's luminous (and, to my mind, unmatched) prose.
Post a Comment
<< Home