The title of this post should explain my frustrations of the past several weeks. First of all, I hadn't planned to move; it was forced on my husband and I because of horrendous living conditions in the apartment building where we were residing. Luckily, we found a delightful bungalow and I was excited about moving in and making it our own.
What is hateful about the task is both obvious and not so obvious. Obviously, no one likes to pack, load a moving truck, unload a moving truck, unpack everything and find just the right place for it all. I've suffered all of that in spades and have vowed that, no matter what, I am not moving again.
The not so obvious to most people is that all of these tasks take me away from my writing. My blog, which I had just begun when the move took place, does not have near the number of entries I had hoped to post by now, my novel has only been approached when I had a writer's group session and wanted to present a chapter in progress to them, and the list of magazine articles I want to query and attempt to sell grows ever longer with no headway being made on any of them.
This morning, I walked through our new home and delighted in all we've done. It isn't finished by any means: there are still drapes to buy and hang, painting to do, etc., but it has reached the livable point, and that makes me a happy person.
So, my first act today was to sit down at my keyboard and get busy on the mountain of printed material I want to create and eventually (I hope!) publish. The best part about this blog is that I can start here because no one can say "yea" or "nay" about whether it gets published or not; I'm the one who decides what gets posted. It's a feeling of power for a writer. Better still, it gets the creative juices flowing. Now, I can move on to the next chapter in my novel.
Stay tuned; I think I'm "back at it" - finally. That makes me even happier than looking at my organized bungalow.