It is highly unlikely I’ll write a full post today. You see I’m still putting the pieces of my office back together.
Yeah, I spent yesterday at it, and I’m still working at it.
Part of it is that I haven’t yet unpacked the boxes from the last house, even though we moved four years ago. I wanted to get to work, so I shoved them in the closet and carried on.
Part of it is that I suspect some of the boxes are from Manitou or even from Cache la Poudre…. (calculates) 26 years ago.
Sometimes I wonder if Americans, a highly mobile and very busy society, move through life accumulating more and more boxes they never open. I think we unpacked everything when we lived in Manitou. At least one of the boxes we opened there had been packed by the movers when we moved from Columbia, SC, and contained what had been in the trash can, including one of son’s infant diapers. He was thirteen when we found that. No wonder we hadn’t noticed it was missing….
There’s other stuff. For the last ten years, things have been weird, mostly health wise, but also because I’ve been dealing with crisis not of my own making (and the ones I make are bad enough.) Also, I’ve been trying new ways of doing things, mostly because I was sick and hoped SOME method would work to be more productive. They didn’t work, and I’m culling them and donating them to someone who maybe can use them.
I’m not going all “get rid of what doesn’t spark joy” because if I got rid of my old contracts IP lawyers would have nothing to work with (for instance.) BUT I am trying to cut down on the sheer volume of crap that I carry house to house without having any use for it.
It has become somewhat obvious that at some point in the future — should I live that long, of course — we’ll HAVE to move low altitude. When we do, we’ll have enough of our stuff to carry (200 and some boxes of books, and that’s having got rid of almost all fiction and keeping only the research books. Fiction is now electronic.) without paying for movers to take things I’m never even going to look at much less use.
So the unpacking and organizing has become…. really, an archeological dig. A very weird one.
Some of the things that were in my office (as opposed to downstairs in the library) are puzzling in the extreme, like books on the evolution of sexual reproduction (not titillating. Highly detailed, chromosome talk. (Yes, yes, I know. People pay good money. I think I did in fact.) To explain, I’m only supposed to have books for the current two or three projects in my office.
I do know why I have a pile of books on the war of the roses in my office, as opposed to the library, but only because recently I came across THAT out outline. It’s called Bone Deep, and it’s about a woman who rebuilds faces from ancient skulls. (“she tries this one thing, and you’ll never believe what happens next!” Dear Lord, to catch up with my backlog in the next couple of years I’d need to do a book a week, sustained.)
But other stuff…. Shrugs.
And the note pads, including a plethora of embassy suites complimentary pads scribbled with beginnings, with ends, with ideas, with what appears to be darn near full novels…. I got nothing.
I’m not looking too closely at those. Because then I’d be a month unpacking and have a million new ideas. Right now any notebook that has stuff goes in a pile. Okay three piles. Five feet tall. At some point, in my copious spare time, I’m going to rip out the filled pages and file them in three boxes: ideas, plots and novels.
But some of them get my attention, and I read parts of it.
WHY in heaven’s name — and WHEN — did I write half of a mil sf with a character named Patience Bach? And why is it called Patience Abides? From the pad it’s on, it was LONG before I read Honor Harrington (I was a late comer to it) so it wasn’t an attempt at imitating it, but it’s WEIRD. Also probably very bad. I haven’t done more than skim.
I mean, it has pages and pages of RANKS — who WAS I when I wrote this? I don’t even think that way. (Shoves the maps of Eden, and schematics of the Cathouse under the sofa with her toe) — and ship schematics.
And what in heavens name possessed me to sketch cozy mysteries in which the male protagonist has the help of a very proper lady ghost from the revolutionary war era?
And what, in the holy name of Ned is a long and complicated worldbuilding on a world that seems to be all mud and floods?
I almost feel like doing a day a week with “Discoveries from Sarah’s packed boxes” only you guys would expect me to finish them, even the very bad ones, for the LULZ.
All of these seem to have come and gone, leaving no trace behind and no wish to write them.
It’s very weird. Like looking at notebooks of a stranger who has my handwriting.
As I said, they will gradually be organized and filed and become someone else’s problem long after I’m gone, unless the boys are sensible and get a dumpster to take it all.
Anyway….. I find it very weird to have to deal with my thirty-something year old self. She might have been stranger than I am.
And now, back to the unpacking.