We are moving. This week. Yes, that's right. I am now the homeowner of a late 19th century colonial farmhouse and will no longer be harping on my tiny kitchen and the way in which it hinders my ability to cook/bake properly. This house will have two kitchens, at least for a while, so that will really not be a problem anymore, though the likelihood of me whining about home-improvement has just increased exponentially. Alas, I have been raised to appreciate the century-old fixer-upper.
Which brings me to the main issue I am dealing with on the writing/reading front at the moment. As we have yet to move, home improvement whoas are still on the horizon. Right now, there is packing. Epic mounds of packing. Of course, really, we don't have much more in the way of possessions than we did when we moved into our two-bedroom apartment, except for the books. With two English majors in the house, plus a budding book enthusiast whose best subject is reading, we have quickly come to the unspoken agreement that there can never be too many books. Twenty boxes later, it is apparent that, when moving, clearly, there can be too many books and that seems to be what we have.
While the mountains of boxed paperbacks seems to highly amuse the cat, it has done little but give me a backache in recent weeks. Its required packing also has taken a substantial hit to my productivity novel-revision wise, though I have started in on that, including writing a (I hope) nifty new beginning. I am making slower-than-I'd-like progress on Cloud Atlas as well and impatient to see it through to the end. Once we have things unpacked at the house, hopefully I can get back on track without too much fanfair, and in the meantime, I'll just look forward to the front room of my new house, the future library that will house all of these books and probably more.