Okay, so I'm not technically homeless.
I am however missing out on a space to call my own of any sort, for writing. Space as in the physical sense as well as in the mental sense. I'm chasing a three year old around by day, exhausted by evening and obliteraed by night (or now so it seems, so excuse my blabbering).
I'm writing my first novel, well I've been writing my first novel for what feels like a decade but it's probably been more like five years. I know! I know! that's crazy! I should have had it done by now.
I went away, for the first time in my life, to a place for writers to write, a retreat, Wellspring House, in MASS. It was absolutely wonderful! I was there an entire week, completely alone, in silence most often, in a tiny room of my own. It was a dream. The town was beautiful, it was fall and the leaves were turning. I mean a DREAM!
I wrote, I read, I slept, I barely ate, don't know why but I didn't need to...I was full on inspiration. I got several pages written, good pages too.At the end I was positive that I would come back home and remain focused and on key with my schedule to finish this book.
Yep, I froze! Got home and now it's been far too long to admit and I haven't touched it. Granted I've written other things and will have an article published in a new online magazine soon...but my novel...my beloved novel...sits, waiting, homeless and without conversation.