At long last, I’m moving house next month. I have wasted too much emotional and mental energy pissed off, anxious, nonfunctional, miserable, distracted, and stressed out because of my downstairs neighbors. Life around here is like a bad movie.
I’m talking yelling, screaming, hostility. I’m talking a rotating gang of adults and children and dogs and cats and loud trucks. There’s no solution. Except to leave. Start fresh. Find myself a home that will feel like a home. I need a home so I can write.
So I’m moving, and I’m purging my belongings, which feels fabulous. Last night, however, I started in on my office and hit the hoarder wall with my precious hard-copy manuscripts. I can give up mementos from past boyfriends easily enough, but not these pages! My fiction feels like the most real part of me. The manuscripts ARE me.
Is that weird?
Maybe on a far grander scale, this is what hoarders feel about their belongings. Like they won’t exist anymore without their stuff…
I’d better watch out.
I carried the manuscripts out to the living room and turned on the boob-tube. I thought it might be easier to decide in favor of recycling if I was distracted. I turned on CSI. The episode? About a hoarder! I thought, this is a sign. I SHALL recycle these manuscripts. I SHALL NOT end up rotting under a truckload of paper.
Lisa, she lived and died for her fiction. That’s not what I want on my gravestone…On the other hand, wouldn’t it be cool to be cremated with our stories?
My future death aside, at some point today I gazed at those grocery bags full of my words, and my scribbles, and my labor, and my life, and I decided to keep the manuscripts around for awhile longer, after all.