Okay, I’m only getting a new apartment and moving, but it’s challenging this time. Not just because there’s an acute housing shortage in the area at the moment: I haven’t moved in over 13 years.
For most of my adult life, I lived in a place for three years tops, and usually I moved every year. I don’t know why I’ve stayed here this long; I kept meaning to move on but never did. While living here I wrote five books, an idea for the next one taking hold on the heels of the last. I’m a process oriented person: I’m not interested in what I’ve written once it’s completed, so I’m a willing channel for the muse.
Creativity thrives in stability, routines, and predictability. Paradoxically, this is where originality blooms. Since finding out that I have to move, it’s been difficult to focus even on this blog. Thirteen years and change. I’m going through accumulated stuff that should have been dealt with years ago, thinking “Why haven’t I thrown away these cassette tapes?’ and “What was I thinking when I bought this dress?”
I still have to figure out what to do with all my unpublished and unpublishable writing. I’m tempted to ditch all of it, but that is a decision that doesn’t have to be made yet. There are arguments to be made either way.
Weeding through books may not be an option. Local used bookstores are not buying; thrift stores and libraries don’t want anything that isn’t new fiction. In the past, my old books were snapped up eagerly, but I don’t live in a particularly intellectual locale. Maybe I’m meant to hang on to them.
I won’t have a clear idea of everything I need to keep until I find another home. In the meantime, I can throw away crusty old spice jars and nearly empty tubes of ointments that have cluttered the bathroom for years. There’s a lot I have no problem letting go of.