My husband and I have been married almost twenty-five years. We’ve moved ten times. (I just counted because I do my best creative procrastination when I’m on deadline.) These haven’t been military related (though I’ve been militant about a few of them), due to job transfers (with the exception of four moves due to Hurricane Katrina), or because we’ve been evicted (thank God).
It’s because we’re idiots, I tell you, idiots.
Seriously, I told the husband that the only place I am willing to move after this recent was:
1. to Houston to live in the same city as my children, 2. to Houston , and 3. to Houston. And the only thing I’m taking is my toothbrush. And the dog.
And this is related to writing…how?
I’ll tell you. Here are five reasons writers shouldn’t move:
- Having to unhook the laptop/computer from my online life support (the router/modem) is painful. Like putting the scissors to the VISA or losing a finger. I posted DNR (DO NOT REMOVE) on my router, and I’m thinking of having someone sign off on having seen it.
- We show up at the new house before the internet connection…and, oh dear God, in the name of everything holy, how will I survive because I’m on deadline, I haven’t checked out Nordstrom Rack’s clearance sale, and found out if Jennifer Aniston’s really pregnant this time because she’s been pregnant for decades now, and–oh, yes–I’m on deadline.
- We confuse the Muse, and mine is pretty damn ticked off right now because she can no longer sit on the balcony and watch the world go by while I’m dawdling, waiting for her to remember who made it possible for her to be there in the first place. The duck pond across the street is not, definitely not, doing it for her.
- Our book-buying addictions are exposed. After the fifth or sixth box labeled “bathroom,” weighing in at fifty pounds came down twenty-seven steps, I’d blown my cover. I told him I’m researching the idea of building a small cottage office using paperbacks and hardbacks, and a few workbooks as mortar.
- My office is a mess. Not the purposeful, organized mess I’d already created at the other house. This is a new mess that doesn’t know where it all belongs.
I’m certain there are more, but my brain’s still adjusting to its new thinking environment.