After 59 years living in the same town, 24 years living in the house I built to raise my family, it’s time to move on. The house is now wrong, and the town is too far from the things that really matter. My wife and I put our house up for sale, and it recently sold. We’ve found a new home in a new town, and I’m very excited about the move.
The new home holds a lot of promise. It’s clean and very empty. Over the past months, anticipating our move, my wife and I have started packing and paring down our stuff. By the end of the month we will be in our new home. We’re bringing some of our old furnishings with us, but also planning on getting new stuff . . . furnishings that fit the new house and the new life.
It feels like starting a new chapter in my writing.
There’s a certain amount of freedom that comes along with the fear and dread when staring at a blank page of a new chapter. Everything is possible at that moment. The perfect opening sentence, a paragraph with real impact, the ability to put words together in a way that actually doesn’t suck, though there’s a distinct possibility the chapter won’t come together the way I first envision it. My characters have a way of taking over.
Just like in my new living room. I think I know where all the furniture is going, but once I move in, it may not fit or feel just right. We’ll no doubt need to play with (edit) it a bit before it’s comfortable, and just right for us.
But right now, it’s all bright possibilities, and I can’t wait. There’s even a big, empty, unfinished basement just waiting to be transformed into my ‘Man Cave.’
Work? Sure, there will be plenty of that, but with so many bright possibilities, I can’t wait to dive in, just like when I’m writing.
Yeah, I know this feeling. It’s time for the next chapter.