I am moving. To Turkey.
This is probably the most fabulous thing to happen to me, like, ever. The Husband and I will be jetting off to Ankara in about two weeks, a deadline I feel much better about now that we actually have our student visas in hand (adventures in bureaocracyland is not a book I will ever write, but if I did, it would be a lot like The Castle, by Franz Kafka. Do yourself a favor and don’t read it).
In the course of all this madness, we have naturally been packing. Apparently, between the two of us, we have about 2-4 boxes worth of stuff not including clothes. By boxes, I mean those medium sized flat-rate boxes you buy at the post office. Having just finished drafting a noir-ish mystery type book, which clocks in at 47K (i.e., a good 10K words shorter than I’d like), I feel my writing life and my real life are exceptionally spare.
The bones of the novel are there. The twists are built in. But there are missing things. It’s like I’ve got this fabulous apartment that is in need of a paint job and some fripperies to make it feel like home. Which is really ironic, because guess what’s in those boxes we just packed up? Extras. Pictures, tchotchkes, small works of art that can immediately make a new apartment feel a little more comfortable, a little more ours.
So I suppose the lesson of this month is to metaphorically unpack all those boxes into my writing, and take the basic necessities from my writing and apply it to life. Which will be convenient timing for, you know, finding an apartment in Ankara.