The thing I have learned in the past month or so is that Virginia Woolf had it pretty much right: in order to write and create, a woman needs a room of her own. Not just a physical one with walls and ceiling, but also the mental space.
The past few weeks have left my mind feeling mushy and overstretched and quite overwhelmed. Every week I’ve been applying for jobs, telephoning lettings agents (often several times in one day), working, packing up my belongings, missing The Boy and dealing with the end of an era for me.
I know this is by no means the worst life in the world – I’m not moaning – I’m just a little stressed and my poor little brain is feeling utterly drained. I’ve found myself unable to sit and read a book (unheard of, for me) or write any more of Thief, even in the odd quiet moments – I think it’s because at the moment the big things are not sorted out, they’re still unresolved. Similarly, I’ve not been able to think about, never mind concentrate on writing blog posts.
We don’t have a flat, I don’t have a job (and neither does The Boy) and we don’t even have a date for the removal van to come down. (I am leaving my house on Saturday, when my Mother picks me up – my stuff might not be going up to Nottingham until next week!) I don’t deal well with things being this up in the air at this late stage.
I’m hyper-organised for a reason: I panic if I’m not.
So, at the moment, what I’d really like, what I really need is room in my mind to write and create and escape my temporary zombification.