Werdz, Polonius, Werdz

[akirlu]

Writing fiction, at least when I do it, is a matter of visualizing a bunch of counterfactuals, some of them wildly improbable or utterly alien, considering the consequences and connections of those, and making decisions based on them. Over and over. House hunting, at least when I do it, is just the same. House hunting uses the exact same part of my imaginative brain that writing normally uses.

Because, however much they tell you not to mentally move your stuff into a prospective house before it's bought, I can't not do that. If I don't visualize how the crap will fit in the space, how do I know that come moving day we won't need to disassemble a window and rent a duck hoist to get the furniture in? I gotta think that stuff out before hand. With the net result that I wake up spontaneously from a sound sleep with the dream-processed realization that the house on Prospect has no closets. Even my sleeping brain has been roped into this project.

So the silence you hear is me not typing. Zero words per day, day in, day out. It's been like that pretty much since I started the house hunt. And so, in part, I would like the house hunt to be over, not just because it's disappointing, but because I need that part of my brain back someday.

Comments

[bibliofile.livejournal.com]

When I was six, my family went house hunting. It felt like I spent weeks, or even months, in the car. Later, I found out that it was perhaps two weekend days total.

House hunting is deceptive that way: it sucks up a lot more time and energy and thought than one might guess beforehand.