The Ikea furniture has been righteously conquered! Huzzah! Apparently, all I needed was a good night’s sleep and some encouragement from a few good friends. The TV stand, bookcase, and desk have all come together and are functioning properly, save for one of two drawers in the TV stand that will just have to remain shut and unused for eternity. I only have enough DVDs to fill one drawer, anyhow. And now my new home is looking very homey indeed, and making me feel at peace and ready to get back to my normal pace of life. Of course, I am not exactly sure what this new life will look or feel like; all that I do know is that I am feeling comfortable in my own skin again, and eager to begin writing and creating once more.
The most arduous part of my unpacking process was undoubtedly organizing my HUGE collection of books into various categories of usefulness according to my own personal storage system. After I’d assembled my brand new, massively constructed desk and stacked all the books I use frequently, I sat down in my computer chair and said aloud, “Oh yeah—I’m going to write a book in this room.”
Now that I am (mostly) settled into my new house and will very shortly be finished with my work for the Los Angeles Review until March, I truly have no more excuses with which I can put off the writing of this much-thought-about novel. And so it begins again, with all the research and forethought that one must endure for such grand endeavors. It has been eight and a half years since I started my first book, and at this point I can no longer remember what it felt like to sit down and type those first few words. This time however, I have done the prerequisite work of a writer and have prepared myself so that I hopefully won’t need to go through several drafts of total drivel before getting to the good stuff.
My first order of business is to read books in which the author has used a child’s perspective or character to lay out adult themes and plotlines—books by Roald Dahl, Philip Pullman, and Neil Gaiman. Then, the only thing left to do is to sit down and type those first few words. I’ve done it before, and I know I can do it again. Only this time, I’ll have the luxury and disadvantage of writing fiction rather than telling my own story.
Sitting in this new office with the company of my books all around me and my loyal black dog sleeping sweetly next to me on her bed, I am anxious to get started and pull from my brain the story that I know is brewing in there.