Putting it in writing

I also think the quiet out here helps me write

So one of the reasons I've been AWOL lately (aside from the move, the pack, the unpack, the house sale, the other house sale, vacation, and craft show season), was writing.

A few years ago - 2015, to be exact - I got an agent for a novel I'd written.  She submitted the book over the course of a year, but it never found a home.  Agent and I parted company, and I spent a fair amount of time muttering about people who didn't appreciate a story I'd spent years of my life working on, and then I moved on.  Sort of.

Fast forward to October, when I decided that I should, once and for all, see if the thing was worth publishing.  I opened the document and started reading.  And immediately started rewriting.  Things that seemed fine then were glaring now.  I'm not sure if it's because I've been listening to a crap ton of writing podcasts lately, which are really inspiring, but I started having all these ideas about how to fix things that I hadn't thought needed fixing.

I cut 15,000 words from the manuscript without losing a scene or a character, and actually added to it.  I convinced Mario to read it.  He didn't want to, because, "What if it's awful? I can't tell you."  I told him that while I didn't know how good it was, I knew it wasn't awful, and if it made him feel better, then he could only say good things, even if that meant my spelling and punctuation were good.  Thankfully, he had more positive things to say than that.

I decided that I would save the book as it was, and start working on my query and synopsis, which to me are the hardest parts.  I can write long form, but to boil the entire plot down to 3 paragraphs?  That's hard.

Cue December, when I ran across this weird hashtag on Twitter - #pitmad.  Basically, it's a challenge to pitch your book in 280 characters, including the #pitmad tag and whatever tags apply to your form of book - #h (historical) #r (romance), etc.  I looked it up, and apparently it happens as few times a year.  I thought to myself, "I'll do it in March.  I'll be ready by then," and went on about my business.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my tablet, dictating a 280 character pitch, and hitting publish.  Because what could it hurt?

By the end of the day, I had likes from 3 agents, which meant that within the next few days, I had to actually complete my query and synopsis and send it off to 3 real agents, not just the vague agent-y idea in my head.

And guess what?  I did it.  Best way to get me to do something I don't think I can do?  Give me no time to think about it.

One of the agents got back to me and requested the full manuscript, which I sent off the next day, after doing one more frantic read-through for typos, wonky spacing, etc.

And now we wait.

But since I now have a decent query and synopsis, I won't just wait.  By the midpoint of January, I want to send out 5 more queries.  Because I can.

And because this is the year that I will finally do this.  If it doesn't get agented, or if it does, but doesn't find a publisher, I'll do it myself.  I've looked into self-publishing, and if I can figure out how to write a book, I can certainly figure out the mechanics of publishing it.

And so it goes.  Onward, people, onward.

Moving right along

Possibly a little too quickly.

You all know we're looking to move.  We've even figured out where.  But we were thinking about starting the process after the new year -- that's why, among other reasons, we turned away from that large house in the burbs that I talked about before.

And then.  I jumped the gun a bit.

I like looking at real estate ads, the same way I used to troll want ads, even when I was happy in my job.  It's just like going to Ikea, looking at those perfect little rooms and thinking, "Who would I be if I lived here?"  The imagining is always fun.

There were a few interesting houses online, and I visited the listings fairly often.  Then, at a craft show, a friend mentioned that her partner was a realtor covering that area.  Well, it seemed only polite to call and ask to see a few of those houses -- we didn't have to buy them, after all.  It was just like a trip to Ikea, trying them on for size, seeing who we'd be in those spaces.

One of the houses I liked was already empty, its walls painted in colors I could live with, its hardwood floors gleaming with fresh polyurethane, eliciting an almost-inappropriate response in my old house loving heart.  We asked to see that one.

When the realtor texted, setting up the time to meet him, I thought he'd mis-typed the house number.  I'll meet you at 114, he wrote.  I texted back, Don't you mean 115?

No, he said.  We'll see that one too, but the house across the street is also for sale and a better price. 

Oh, okay.

We saw 114, and I realized pretty quickly that I'd looked at the listing and dismissed it because of the godawful pictures, which showed not one good feature and every bad one.  The house had many of the features on my wish list: screened porch, working fireplace, dry basement, replacement windows, three bedrooms, reasonable amounts of storage, a garage, a back yard.  It had a few extras I wasn't anticipating: a built-in cedar closet in the small attic, original built-in kitchen cabinets, aslate roof.  It had a few things I disliked: wallpaper in a few areas, a dingy bathroom, white-painted woodwork everywhere, a leak in the porch roof that damaged part of the living room wall. 

We looked at 115, directly across the street.  The colors were good.  The floors were gorgeous.  The kitchen was similar to 114, but smaller.  The  yard was bigger, but less private.  There wasn't much left to do, and it was $40,000 more.

Guess what we did? 

We're still in the loan/paperwork/agonizing stage, so (much) more later.  And the move still won't be until well after the new year, so maybe I'm not that far off schedule after all.

Moving on up

17 years.  Still never finished the paint job

I bought my house in West Philly in spring, 2000, so I've passed the 17 year mark.  During that time, my life changed a lot - and quite a few of those changes were brought about because of the house.

I bought a big house because I looked at my friends buying "starter" homes and thought, I never want to do this again.  I'm not buying a small house so that I can buy a big house later.  So I went big from the beginning, big enough that my oldest friend could rent an entire apartment on my third floor.

In 2005, I met Mario, through a neighbor.  I would have never met either of them if I hadn't bought the house.  He and I got together in 2007, and married in 2011.  Slowly but surely, he moved all his stuff into this house, and it got absorbed with no loss of space.  During this time, I also sewed a lot, bought even more fabric, started a business, bought more fabric for that, and just . . . bought more fabric.

There's also a really good thrift store down the street, and the phenomenon  known as "Penn Christmas," when all the students leave the neighborhood and abandon most of their worldly possessions on the curb.

So, in 17 years, I moved a one bedroom apartment into a 3 story house (with an attic), added 2 more people, a dozen or so cats, and filled the house to the bursting point.

Now our housemate is moving out at the end of the month, and we'll have an empty third floor apartment - which can't be rented to just anybody, because they would literally have to walk through our house.  Trust like that only extends to your oldest friends, who can not only be trusted with your stuff, but with your cats.

The porch raccoons were not my favorite guests

This coincides with the City raising property taxes in the last few years.  Taxes have gone from $1300 when I moved in (2000), to $6500.  With no increase in services, street repairs, or anything else that I can see.

So it's time to move.  To a smaller house.  A "starter" house.  With a bit more yard, far less space to cram stuff, and a slightly longer commute to work.  (Not thrilled about that part, since I've lived within walking distance of work since I was 19).  But the nearby burbs are where it's at for us, where we'll be able to find a smaller, less expensive house, with possibly lower taxes (but at least a higher level of service for said taxes).  More yard.  Did I mention I want more yard?

After our housemate departs, I'm going up to the attic and start ruthlessly sorting.  If it stays, it goes into her space, for now  Otherwise, it's getting donated down the street or put on the curb.

I'll start my own Penn Christmas, all by myself.