In this house I've written, maybe, a million pages. Ok, doing the math, more realistically, 500,000. Nethertheless, in the eleven years I've lived here, a half-dozen novels have been drafted, two of which I've considered "done." I've written poetry here. dozens of essays. Possibly 50 articles. I won't even start with blog posts, emails, and other outgoing missives.
Saying goodbye to a writing space is a subset of the general goodbye--less fraught with toil, but infused with emotion. Yesterday, I found myself dissolved to tears several times. Out of nowhere: grief, sorrow, frustration. The things I did, the things I failed to do (yes, I'm aware this sounds like a Catholic creed).
In this house I've written award-winning pieces. I've received great news (grants, prizes, publication), and countless rejections. I sit here stymied by the hope, dashed hope, and tenacity of the writers' life manifest. And, of course, part of me wonders where it will all go. Will I be able to write in my new house? Will I be so besieged by the trivialities and pragmatic concerns (I have to buy a microwave! All the walls are dingy and dated! Get rid of the carpet in favor of the virgin hardwood that lies underneath!) that writing will forever take a back burner to swapping out the burners on the ancient cooktop?
Ah. And oy. And aye! Lament but press on!
Coincidentally, I have packaged up my manuscript, and SOL is now rattling about in the hands of others--being appraised, considered, what have you. Closure abounds.
I'm itching to channel some of this free-floating angst in a productive direction. All of My Children Are Not Here awaits!