So the hard part is over. And I don’t mean finishing (hopefully) the final major revisions for book 3–which I did. And I don’t mean establishing a new routine without the stability of a 9-5 job–which I’m currently working on. And I don’t mean starting book 4 from scratch–which is next on my to do list. I mean moving.
It was a nightmare. The packing, the 17 hour drive, the getting pulled over for getting caught in the left lane, the carrying what was left of my belongings to my new third floor apartment, the unpacking, the dropping the washer on my boyfriend’s big toe, the money I spent on gas and furniture and fast food. Oh God, the food. I have consumed nothing but fried grease for the past two weeks and if I so much as smell another cheeseburger I’m going to puke.
But it’s over. I must keep reminding myself. It’s over and I’m finally settled back in Texas. It feels good to be home, well six hours east of home. But it feels right nonetheless. The one thing I didn’t anticipate though was just how much moving would cut into my writing time and how much just recovering from moving would do the same. But I’m learning to be flexible. I guess I really have no choice. My calendar has pretty much become null and void and even though it kills me to know I won’t accomplish everything I’d hoped during this sabbatical, I have to remember that any kind of progress is better than nothing. And as long as I’m making the most of each day at home, that’s all that matters.