Sunday, November 8, 2009

I'm Moving




So if you didn't think I lead the most charmed of charmed lives already here in Lloyd, let me just point out that I not only have my dream house which is one hundred and fifty years old (and for those of you who live in the "old world" let me reassure you that over here in the "new world," especially in Florida, that is old for a house which is not a fucking museum) and have oak trees which are hundreds of years old and children and grandchildren and a handsome, loving husband and a grandchild, I also have AN OFFICE all to myself.

Yes. Yes I do.

I haven't been using it that much lately because ironically, I have no need to sequester myself away as the children are grown up and have moved out (mostly) and Mr. Moon is not here a lot of the time. So. There you have it. I have an office I don't even need because the whole house is a room of my own and especially the back porch.

But this time of year the southern sun beats into the porch with great intensity due to the fact that the trees have lost their leaves and also, the sun in its mysterious journey across the sky (mysterious to me, at least) is in position all day from early morning until sunset to shine in the porch in such a way that I cannot see my computer screen. It's bright, folks. I'm telling you.

And doesn't that just make you hate me even more?

God. I hope not. Does it help if I tell you that at one point in my life I had a husband (not this one) and two children and we all lived in a very small single-wide trailer and I thought it was fabulous because I had running water? So yes, I have paid some dues.

But this, this office is a wealth of riches beyond imagination. I admit it. It was, a long, long time ago, the kitchen for the house. Back when they cooked with wood, the heat and the threat of fire danger was too great to have the kitchen in the house and so it was placed at a bit of a distance from the house. Not too far. A few steps.
And the woman who lived here two families before me used it as her art studio and the woman who lived here directly before me wrote her (very much-published) books in it and now it is mine and I barely use it.

What a sin, what a sin, what a sin.

But it's coming on winter and I can barely see my computer screen and so I am going to move my ass in here and I am going to write.

Oh sure. I write every day. And I love the blog and I think it has brought me more in writing skills and abilities than almost anything I've ever done. It's given me a voice. It's given me a community. It's given me joy. And I will not stop writing it but the thing is, the blog feels more like a phone call than writing. I can sit down anywhere and do it. There is no need for a dedicated place, no need for a dedicated time. Or so I tell myself and then I realize how many hours a week I do spend on it and I know I'm fooling myself.

And I know I'm fooling myself when I call myself a writer these days because I am not keeping my ass in the seat to work on any of the novels or the memoir-with-recipes that are half-done or mostly-done or partly done and they are calling to me, they are singing to me, they are whispering to me to come and tend them and so here I am. My ass in the seat, all my favorite this-es and that-ses in this sunbright but not overpoweringly so, office. The room that every time Mr. Moon comes into he wants us to make a bedroom out of. I am stubborn about saying no to that one. I may not use it as much as I should, but I can if I want and I will. Dammit.

It is a symbolic move as well as a real one, to come in here to write because when I just sit at the table on the porch I am saying to myself that I can get up and go finish the laundry or wash the dishes or sweep the floor at any second and leave the writing because really, I'm not writing, I'm just, oh, doodling and that doesn't count because if I say it DOES count then I have to believe in myself as a writer.

Do you understand what I am saying here? I am sure that at least 99% of you do. We are all writers, we are all readers and yet we guiltily grab our pleasures and our work when we can and where we can and if we are doing housework or watching children or tending husbands or helping with homework or cooking dinner while we do it (how many of you put up a quick post while supper is simmering?) then we don't have to say we're "writing," we're just updating the blog.

I can't see the chickens from here and so they will have to spend more time unspied upon. I can't see my garden or but a tiny part of the yard while I am in here. I can only see all of the things I love and have been gifted with and so I am saying, when I am in here, that I am WRITING.

I feel a fool for saying that. I do. I feel like I'm making stuff up, like I'm giving myself credit where no credit is due, that I am being selfish and slothful and even sinful because the fact of the matter is, there is really no place on earth I'd rather be than in this room with my computer in front of me and it's a room where women have always done their work and so I want to do mine, even if it only involves the moving of the fingers.

There is a part in one of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' stories where she tells her maid that she is so tired from writing all day. The maid, who cannot even read but who has spent her day in cleaning and cooking and tending to all of the needs and wants of the author and who has watched her sit in one chair on her porch in front of her typewriter says something like, "Oh darling, I know those arms of yours must be tired." And she says this in all seriousness.

I know what Marjorie felt like and I also know damn well how the maid felt. I think I have been more in the maid's role than in the author's for my entire life and there has been nothing wrong with that and I am certainly not complaining- my work has been wonderful and it is wonderful and I have been blessed to have such work, the tending of house and yard and loved ones.

But I want to know what it feels like to sit and write for five, six, seven hours at a time. Maybe eight! And here comes the wedding and Thanksgiving and Christmas and the floors will still need sweeping and the laundry will still need doing and the meals will all need to be prepared but it's time to allow myself to sit here and try. To try and see what is inside of me. I am not sure how this is going to work. But I'm starting by moving my base of operations.

The Church of the Batshit Crazy has reopened a new/old office where strange rituals can now be practiced.

Will be practiced.

So help me Gnomes. So help me Mermaids. So help me Johnny Weismuller. So help me Frida Kahlo, so help me Virgin of Guadalupe, angels and maps of Cozumel and all the wonderful things I surrounding me as I sit here.

But mostly- so help me ME. Because in the end, at the bottom, in very definition of it all, it's all up to me and what I believe of myself, how I believe or don't believe in myself, and what sort of possibilities I allow myself to dream of.

This is a good room for dreaming and a great room for working.

Let the dreams begin, let the work begin, let the stories spin, let the fingers fly, the days go by.

Let the guilt be gone, let me sing my song, let me know my place, let me bless this space.

And there you have it- the hymn for today, this Sunday at the Church of this particular Batshit Crazy. What's going on in your church today? I hope it's good and that you take a few moments at least to dedicate it to yourself and your own dreams, whatever they may be.

22 comments:

  1. Oh, what a fun little, bright, happy, room of one's own. Wonderful. Write write write. You must. You will.
    We all know there are books in you.
    I am going to find you one of my favorite Mary Oliver quotes about how writing is about showing up. You show up for us everyday, and we love it and need it almost, it feels like (bit of panic when I started to read. Thought you might be abandoning us for novels). But I know just what you mean about the OTHER kind of writing. So glad you have such a perfect space for it.
    I finally got my bulbs in the ground. But I wrote a bit, just for myself, beforehand and it felt wonderful.
    Hooray for you. Moving on up...

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  2. i totally love your writing room..:-)

    and let me tell you something...beeing a writer isnt about beeing published..thats only the money and the vanity part..and beeing a writer isnt about the typing either all the time..because the real writer writes all teh time..inside..in his hbead..in his heart..there is where the writer lives..the typing comes later...so..you are..a wonderful writer..each post of yours is like a string of pearls unleashed and running in wonderfull colors across our screens

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  3. Oh yes! That looks like it belongs to me, that room.

    I saw a v famous Irish writer talking and he said it's all about time, not skill. Two hours day, even if you only produce crap. Slog slog.

    Good luck, I'm cheering for you, Ms Writing Lady.

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  4. actually i have a thing going on with writers rooms..i love to see where writers work...

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  5. Sustenance for the soul -- that's what the Church of the Batshit Crazy is to me.

    That desk -- those mementos -- what an altar.

    Thanks for the fabulous post.

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  6. Yep, I'm jealous. I bet your house is amazingly beautiful. I love Florida. I think you should do a weekly post of something beautiful that catches your eye. Moss covered trees, palm trees of varying species, are you close enough to get to the beach? I want beach photos.

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  7. that was a GREAT post...piece of writing...you've started already I think...

    has anybody ever done a call out to favourite bloggers to demand photos of where they blog from? just a photo of their computer and the room...it'd be interesting

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  8. GOOD FOR YOU! In my house, sitting down to the computer is seen as an invitaton to chat, cajole, even harrangue. Not conducive to writing the least little bit. So I know exactly what you mean, my friend.

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  9. Love the hymn.

    Would also love to read your memoirs with recipes.

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  10. Oh, I do know what you mean. I do. I have a dream of writing and just can't take myself seriously. You must, Ms. Moon - for you, and for all of us. Because if you can't, what hope is there for us?
    (I would like to start a branch of your church over here and be its preacher - isn't that weird.)

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  11. Dear MM,

    Glad you are getting back out to the lovely office. It is a grand space indeed. I loved your old one too, overlooking the pool. Yummy.

    Here's to writing your fingers to the bone!
    xo pf PS No reply's to my post about Ms Betty on the chicken site... How is she?

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  12. Bethany- Planting bulbs is akin to writing really good words. They go forth. They multiply. They bring joy and beauty. I understand the satisfaction of the bulb planted and tucked in until spring.

    Danielle- Oh Lord but you make me blush. And I have not even read your erotica! Thank-you. Thank-you, sweet man.

    Elizabeth- Each and every thing in that room is a story in and of itself. It is a sacred place to me and I need to allow myself to use it. Yes. You got it right- it is an altar. The whole damn thing.

    Jo- Oh. How I want to SLOG.

    Rebecca- I do post beach pictures occasionally. I have not been to any beach but those of Mexico recently even though I have fairly easy access to local beaches. Long story. Go back to older posts- you will see many pictures of moss on trees and things that have caught my eye.

    Screamish- I agree. That would be a wonderful subject.

    Glimmer- We do all need a room of our own and that's not so much to ask.

    Michelle- I'm gonna work on it.

    Mwa- There are many branches of the Church of the Batshit Crazy and anyone may feel welcome to start their own. Preach away, Sister!

    Ms. Fleur- Yes. That room was where I finished Rose. It was a beautiful room. Betty is okay. She hasn't left the hen house in days but is still laying which says to me that she has good health. I am trying to just be patient and let things resolve as they will....

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  13. I love it! Your office is beautiful. I love the brightness, the treasures, the space to create. Write write write!

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  14. i m afraid that its my typos that make you blush..:-)

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  15. What a lovely bright and inspiring place to work. It is so you, my dear Ms. Moon.

    And I am sorry, but as far as I am concerned, if you write, be it a blog or a novel or whatever, you are a writer. You are a writer no matter where you do it, Ms. Moon. You were born to it. So is May.

    I love you shitloads.

    SB

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  16. As I started to read this post about your old Florida home I thought of Marjorie Kinna Rawlings....and then several paragraphs later you mention her!
    I enjoyed reading this and I liked Danielle's comment about how a writer is always writing in his/her heart. I am drowning in my life but I am always writing inside of me.
    Love your room!

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  17. Lora- I am so lucky. And now yes, to write.

    Danielle- Hardly.

    Marsha- Ain't it?

    Ms. Bastard- May certainly is. She is full-blown. Hank is too. Love you, dear.

    Michele Rene- Yes. We do that. We write it as it happens and then we go back and rewrite it again. And then perhaps eventually, we actually do write it. We live things over and over again.

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  18. I love this time of year when the sun comes in the rooms almost horizontally and there's tons of vitamin D in the air.

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  19. Dear Mz.Moon,

    Damn girl, I'm excited. I feel the power from here. What a pleasure for your soul to have this beautiful space to create your art that we all appreciate so very much. The gift of your words and the stories of your loving life fills a place in all of our hearts, those hearts you have blessed. I love this church and I love YOU.

    Lizzie

    xoxo

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  20. Good day, good thoughts, good effort. Good start, the most important part.

    Look forward to someday reading your stories and your memoir with recipes.

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