So, there’s a For Sale sign in front of our house now.
I really hate to see it there. A glowing orange invasion of my privacy. A beacon that declares my home somehow isn’t quite my own anymore.
Which is all really silly because I’m doing this of my own accord. Well, I’m doing this for David and for our future. We’re moving to Victoria in August so he can go back to school and start a second career. One that he really loves.
I’m excited to do it. We’ve been in Laramie for 20 years and it’s time for a change. In May we’ll fly out there to house hunt, which will be fun.
Meanwhile, I have to deal with this ending. Though we’ll live in our beautiful, beloved house for six more months, right now I have to open it up to the evaluating eyes of strangers.
We signed the contracts. I like our realtor. I believe her that this is the right time to do this, that the market is hot. We want all the money we can get, to start our new life.
But I still want to go yank that sign out of the lawn.
Well, if this isn’t just a ready-made analogy for writing, I don’t know what is.
You build a little world. You live in it for a while, fixing it up and decking it out just so. You pour your heart and soul into it, making it a living, breathing reflection of your very self.
And then you let it go. You put it up for sale. You open it up to others, letting them into you, giving them a chance to live in your world and see through your eyes.
On the other hand, if you spend 20 years writing a novel and then sell it to only one person, you’re just NOT doing it right.