A writing room

Saturday, July 24, 2021

I’m closing in on three weeks of being off of work. It’s been glorious but also the same holds true for me now as it did in high school--when I am busier, I am more productive. Whenever I was in season for any one of my sports, I always did better in school. The constraints were actually good for me. They forced me to get done what I needed to get done because I knew that I wouldn’t have a chance to do it later because of practice or a game. 

When I have seemingly unlimited time, I feel no pressure to actually do anything. The lack of parameters is actually more crippling for me. The flip side of this is that when I actually am busy, time is anything but plentiful, and I end up having to choose between sleep and showering just to stay afloat. Either way, nothing gets done. 

Thus, here I am, three weeks of vacation, and nothing to show for it in the form of words and sentences and paragraphs. There is, however, a completed puzzle on my kitchen table and I’ve caught up on the fourth season of The Crown. 

This is my half baked attempt to form the beginnings of the next best selling memoir in the 11th hour before my life goes back to reality for a good long while. Truthfully though, I am actually excited to get back to work so that my days will have more structure to them. I’ll feel more useful. Having somewhere to be, humans to talk to, and tasks to do are highly underrated. 

I’ve also discovered that the kids are fine. As in, completely able to function without me. They can feed themselves, they can go the bathroom by themselves, and they know how to read. They are practically ready to be let loose into the world. They will undoubtedly spend a shit load of time on screens when I’m at work, but honestly it’s not much different than when I’m home because I’m not that fun. Granted, the littlest gets sad for me sometimes, so that sucks. 

Frankly, I’m mostly writing about this very uninteresting stuff because I’m trying to establish a routine (I have been trying to do this for roughly 15 years now.) I’m trying to get my fingers back into the rhythms (I can never spell rhythm) of typing. I am trying to get my body familiar with sitting for lengths longer than 3 minutes in this orange chair and at this bone colored wooden desk that faces away from the window in the bottom room of our three story townhouse rental. 

Initially, I didn’t want to use this as my writing room, mostly because it’s not very impressive or pretty. It’s not technically a basement, because none of the house is underground, but it sits adjacent to the garage and has less natural light (but still a good amount) than the middle level. I still call it the basement, though. Spiders have been spotted down here. The windowsill has tons of dead flies and other creatures that I am avoiding cleaning off because it’s fucking gross. There are hundreds of Pop Funko’s down here that need to be sold but will likely live with us for eternity. They make it feel like a college dorm room. I hang up the laundry down here on a rack. There are several tubs of legos and the bathroom has become a dumping ground for all of my husband’s shit that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

All this to say, I didn’t want this to be my writing room because it doesn’t look or feel like a real writing room. There is no built-in bookcase or living plants (though there are living spiders) and it’s not in Brooklyn. It badly needs to be painted. The carpet is brown. I can’t Instagram it because it’s so dead average, and what is anything if it doesn’t exist on social media?

A writing room. What a snob. That’s like saying I need a special room for breathing.

What this room is--to borrow from my evangelical roots--is a room where I can be in the family but not of the family. Generally speaking, they leave me alone down here but I can still hear if someone is getting bullied or bloodied, if they are screaming or sad.

It appears I have hit the end of my rope. I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel. I’ve been sitting here for quite some time now with nothing to say. But hey, there are some words, some sentences, some paragraphs. Wild wasn’t written in a day, after all. 

Besides, Dave awaits. Please watch Dave. The intro to episode 3 of the second season is the best intro, and perhaps the best piece of content, I’ve ever witnessed. It’s disgusting, hilarious, outrageous, and brilliant. Peanut butter and overalls. Did you just call me Chuck?