We’re having a garage sale, therefore my office/seasonal clothes storage room/playroom annex/place where my husband keeps old desks that I hate and family china/ room where everyone dumps everything they can’t find a place for in the rest of the house, looks like several other peoples’ garage sales barfed all over it.
The kids climbed on one of my bookshelves and broke the bottom shelf, causing books to spill all over the floor. I stacked up the books and left the shelf. The kids stood on top of the books to get to the art supplies I keep on another shelf and ripped some of the covers off of the books. RIGHT NOW as I’m writing this, my daughter has just upset a box containing old baby toys and a license plate I stole off of a car when I lived in England the summer of 1990.
When I say this place is a disastrous mess, I’m not bullshitting you.
And I write books in the middle of this hoarders refuge, which can’t be good for my productivity because I spend a lot of time wishing I could just back a Dumpster up to this room, toss the lot and start from scratch.
So, I’m cleaning. I going to clean until it’s organized and the playroom is organized and the garage is organized. I’ll be working my ass off until the linen closet isn’t full of old printers and fax machines and scanners, but the bed linens that are stacked up in a laundry basket in the laundry room.
I’ve worked a little bit more on Found and it’s easy. I love writing it. I just can’t do it in the middle of all this mess anymore!!
Writing resumes on Monday.
…if you’re anywhere near Beaverton, OR in two weeks time, I’ll be selling my possessions out on the lawn. Awesome deals on broken bookshelves and vintage foreign license plates.