Planning my career: 'Moulding It Over'

Right after my last blog, I got busy planning my new endeavors as a writer. That meant organizing my studio (the garage.) The garage has wonderful shelves for all my books and manuscripts. Most importantly, I felt very smug calling it my "studio."

But alas, I was taken right back down to earth again as my studio transformed one night into Lake Garage. I was forced to relocate. I couldn't tolerate the dampness, and all my books started to curl. And I didn't like the idea of having to paddle to my desk. One Friday night, I pulled on my waders and moved all my books into the bedroom. I was surprised that the books all fit on the top shelf of our closet. They're stacked to the ceiling, but nonetheless, it works. “Snug” is the most accurate way to describe the bedroom with its new additions of the secretary desk and filing cabinets.

I felt disappointed that I wouldn't be able to deduct an office space anymore because the bedroom isn't solely used for my business of writing. And I couldn't exactly call my bedroom my studio, also. But that's okay. I'm rather cozy here, and considerably warmer and drier with a heater at my feet.

Now I have no excuse to abandon my writing. My desk is just a few paces away from my bed. Besides, my desk has lots of little things I love on it. My favorite books on writing, including Stephen King's On Writing and Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. My Writer's Markets, a picture of Olav, a favorite lamp, rocks from Missouri, my trusty iBook G4. And of course, lots of pens and pencils.

I'm glad I moved all my things, too, because Lake Garage dried up and transformed into a rather other-worldly moldy wonderland. I suspect it's why my allergies are out of control, because I'm tramping in and out of there all the time, and so are the dogs and cats. This morning at 6 am, blowing my nose for the thirty-fourth time, I contemplated the likelihood of my having transported the mold into the bedroom. Wouldn't take long for the white fluffy stuff to take over in here, fuzzing over my manuscripts, blanketing the walls, filling my lungs. At least I'll die with a pen in hand. The cloudlike toxin is actually quite pretty.