One more reason to be a writer
Just past 5 a.m., been up since 3:30 writing in my journal, figured I’d switch to this more public forum. Typing isn’t exactly fun right now. Found out in the last few days why I’m a writer and not a construction worker–and my hands have paid the price. Been stripping wallpaper for two days–my hands look and feel like I got in a barfight. Cuts all over them from where I slipped with the broadknife, for one thing. Think monster papercut. My knuckles are brick red, and every joint is painful from exerting all the pressure to scrape the evilness off the walls.
The smell of the old paste brings back some unlovely childhood memories. My father was a painter/paperhanger, and I grew up in construction zones. I had to call my brother yesterday to ask him how to put texture on a wall, and he took me to task because I should have been listening when we were kids going to work all summer with our dad. I told him, and meant it, that I had resisted learning anything about the business with my entire heart and soul and will. Not sure he understood it, since he ended up following in our father’s footsteps, but he gave me the information I needed–in so many words, his answer was “Don’t.” Evidently texture is one of those things that an amateur can screw up so badly that a professional can’t fix it.
Doing all this work in order to sell the house–got lots more to do. The aforementioned walls have to be patched, sanded, and painted, along with many other things. Trying to put together a moving sale at the same time, and get the majority of it done before the house goes on the market. Not looking forward to leaving this house–we’ve lived here for more than four years, and love so many things about it. But putting this much money into a mortgage and a monster electric bill for a four-bedroom house when there are only the two of us, and with no one to leave it to, makes no sense. Time to go back to apartment rental. We can save anywhere from $600 to $1000 a month, according to where we move. And, when there’s only one assured income, that sounds pretty good. It also sounds good that we won’t have to pay taxes or interest, and if something happens to the insufferable water heater, someone else comes to fix the damn thing!
Oh, and writing? This is the best excuse so far that I’ve found to not write. However, before I dived into this exercise, I sent Pig off to another agent. After a turndown from a New York agent, I decided to start it making the rounds of Texas reps, starting with Mike Farris. I pitched it to him a couple years ago, when the book was still in its nascency, and he said he wanted to see it. We’ll see what happens from there.
