I’m surrounded by cardboard boxes. You never quite realize just how much stuff you have until you have to pack it all into cardboard boxes, ship it all across the country, and then spend the next month trying to unpack and sort everything.
I’m exhausted. I’m tired of moving. My wife and I have moved a lot in the last eleven years and while it was fun at first (okay, maybe not fun but tolerable) I’m done with it. I don’t think I can deal with another roll of packing tape, or another 2 cube box, or Sharpie pen again.
There is so much you have to do when you move that if you thought about it beforehand you would never take on the task. There are all the utilities that need to be cancelled and started up again, there are all the people who need to be informed of your new address, there are the endless forms you have to fill out, and the movers to deal with, and the boxes to pack and unpack, and the mounds of crap you’ve accumulated that must be gotten rid of, and all of the quirks of your new home to deal with, and on and on and on.
Moving makes writing a book seem like a day in Hawaii.
I was so exhausted after writing my last novel but now I can’t wait to get started writing my new one. I’ve been doing research for the past few months (so much research for this next book - maybe I should have chosen some other topic) and I am really looking forward to just sitting at my computer, my only worry having to be what embarrassing situations can I get my characters into now.
I’ve got about another solid week of hard work left and then I can sink into my story. I just hope my brain isn’t complete mush by the time I get started.