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Diary of Being a Writer; Week 225.
My agent still likes my book, mostly.
I have a cold. A minor one, not the spicey cough but enough to make talking to people all day tough so I have taken the day off of work and now I find myself wanting to do something productive, to get some writing done but really I should be lying down and resting so I can go back to work tomorrow.
So my compromise is to write this and then go back to bed.
I have been working hard on getting the house ready for sale and my glorious writer’s retreat of a study is now a grey shell of its former self. It is sad, but important to make it a blank canvas for the next buyer. As they say on Selling Houses Australia, “it is no longer your house”.
And my beautiful study isn’t gone, it is waiting to be recreated in my next house.
The toughest thing, and I am sure the writers among you will agree, is deciding which notebooks/journals/letters to keep. How much has the potential to help with writing something later on? How much is just taking up space never to be seen again? Well, one of the notebooks I threw out was the basis of my blogged memoir Fuck, A Love Story. That was tough. Not only was it a beautiful notebook bound in silk and embossed with a gilt edge, it had a lot of memories in there. It also had a lot of memories in there…
