The past sixty days have been challenging. I won’t bore you with the list of everything going on in crazyville (aka my life). Let’s just say, there’s been a lot. The biggest thing impacting my writing was buying a house and moving. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to be out of my apartment. I’m grateful I no longer have anyone doing gymnastics overhead (at least that’s what it sounded like). I’m happy to have a garage for my car and no longer make decisions about leaving the house based on the likelihood of getting a parking space. I have unpacked all of my kitchen items. No longer must I make do with one skillet, two plates and four glasses. Nope, all of my lovely plates, glasses and coffee mugs are out. Who knew a kitchen could be so inspirational? I’ve been inspired by my gas stove to actually cook rather than relying on fast food (or calling delivery service if the likelihood of losing my parking space seemed imminent). In one week, I’ve made black eyed pea salad, grilled pineapple salsa (delish btw), chili lime chicken tacos, cubed steak, loaded cauliflower mash, steamed broccoli, grilled corn and let’s not forget the Watermelon Margaritas (only 2 Weight Watcher points, don’t judge). Out of everything, I think the one thing that I am most grateful for is my books.
For close to a year, my books were packed away. Whenever I’ve been blocked, needed encouragement or inspiration, I could turn to my bookshelf. From books about plotting to books about poisons and police procedures, I have a vast assortment of reference books to cater to practically every situation imaginable. When nonfiction couldn’t fill the void, there were my fiction books from Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Patricia Wentworth and Dorothy Gilman to pull me into their world and show me how to plant clues and red herrings so flawlessly.
Unpacking has been a challenge which I’ve still not completed. I seriously believe that like Grimlins who have been fed after midnight and exposed to the light, boxes multiply when left in the dark for long periods of time and some get a bit spiteful (I’ve got the cuts and bruises to prove it). However, I have to admit that the last few days I’ve unpacked with a renewed vigor. Each box was chocked full of old friends with whom I’ve been delighted to get reacquainted. Most of my books are unpacked (although I still can’t find the first few letters of the alphabet in my Sue Grafton books – another trip to the garage is in my future), but this house is finally starting to look and feel like home. The poodles and I are adapting and I’m finally getting back in my grove.