Working from home


In Santa Fe the situation worked well - two writing spaces separate from the house allowed both James and myself a separate commute to work along bark paths. Back in Sandy, residing in a semi-detached house in a close, the situation is different. The house has just been received back from a team of builders, painters, tilers, fencers and electricians who have been setting the place to rights for a month. It now takes a lot to make the place livable again - ideally I would just shut the door in the mornings, head out to work, then come back and rearrange the chaos for an hour or two in the evenings, waiting for a spurt of domesticity at the weekends. Instead it's like moving office - the house has to be taken care of before work can recommence. The desk, literally, has had to be unburied.

Once, in a tenement flat in Glasgow, I moved my whole life and its belongings to the kitchen for a month, where I lived wrote ate and slept. The rest of the place was having its roof replaced. It seemed like some form of healing - as the apartment came back into order, so did my life. I'm hoping for some similar transformation this time around. The good news is that I'm writing this at my desk - which means I've uncovered it. Tomorrow morning I plan to sit myself down at it until my new novel starts to flow once again.

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