I’m selling my home. I’ve lived here for the past 11 years, have brought both my daughters home to this address, and have written all of my novels here. And yet, I’m selling. And it’s killing me.
My wife and I spent all of spring break (we’re both teachers) clearing out the detritus of 11 years, painting and fixing and finishing all the projects I’ve put off for years. I didn’t write at all. Instead, each day was filled with 12-15 hours of manual labor, and every part of me hurts. I have cuts on my hands, along with chemical burns from cleaning solutions. I bent my arm the other night and it locked into the T-Rex position. After I shattered a glass, I knelt on it while caulking, and in spite of the blood, just kept on going. Because that’s how we live now. The deadline is ticking.
And we’re not yet done. There’s still more painting and patching and caulking and raking and on and on. But it will be worth it. Our home is morphing into something less personal, more polished, and ready to sell. Our sites are set on our next house that we will make a home. And so if you find me only sporadically online, know that I’m busy with another project, one that is at times as intricate as writing a novel.
Come July, when hopefully we’re in our new digs, I will settle into a summer of writing and editing. I have a lot in store, but like with our home, it’s a process, and every bit needs attention to detail.