I’ve been using my study for real in the past two months. For real, as in,
I am the writer who lives in this house, and this is where I write.
How incredible is that sentence? I am still feeling it guys. The incredible, the doubtful, the incredulous. Yes. I am watering the plants regularly, and new leaves are unfurling as I sit. I am, yes, still finding the Easter Candy I hid on the shelves. I am still balancing my extreme candy consumption with protein-packed lunches. I have a writing space.
And I’m writing. I’m in it. Its’ been suggested that I should be able to do it with a house full of children, but I can’t. And I’m not going to apologize for that. The way in which my brain settles when the house is empty is an entirely novel experience, and I feel the weight of it. It is an entirely different brain that I carry at those moments, as if I am an entirely different creature. And I am.
I admit, I am not a perfect at-home worker. There are times I definitely struggle to focus on the work, and I dither in the kitchen or decide to do a grocery run. And if I’m freaking out and can’t function, I’ve watched tv. I mean, I hate when I do that and I judge myself very harshly. Daytime tv watching is for sick people or thirteen-year-olds watching soap operas after school. (this is not fair, and not appropriate to the covid era, i know.)
I’m not perfect, but here I am, in a writing space. In and out of doldrums and running like spring weather all around robin hood’s barn. I’m still in it. Watch me shake it on the dance floor, babes.