One Room at a Time

Over the past few years, I’ve been slowly, very slowly, repainting every room in our house. When we moved in, the house was a flip and had been styled to be the least offensive color ever. I was six months pregnant at the time and mostly happy that I didn’t need to do any work to make the place habitable. But the walls were olive and dark beige, and ecru. And it took me ten years to realize that of all the places on earth, our home is the one place where I’m allowed to not want to look at earth tones. (No offense to earth tones. They are so versatile and tasteful and calming. And you never accidentally get a wall that looks like an Easter Egg.)

Now, in all but two rooms, our walls are sunny yellow, and sky blue, and grass green, and yes, flamingo pink. Every time I pick a color and start painting, I pause halfway through and ask myself what I was thinking. And then, when it’s done, I love it.

But there are two final rooms still beige. The first is our TV room. It’s awkward and weird shaped, and mostly, it has a giant hutch full of dishes that will be such a pain in the butt to move. We chose the color months ago, but inertia is holding me back. It will be such a disruption. And it will not be a one-day project. So, I feel I have some excuse.

The second room, is, of course, mine and Forrest’s. It was always going to be the last one painted. Because the kids’ rooms had to come first, and then, well the public rooms are more important. And it’s so annoying to have to move everything, since our room is the waystation for every pile of outgrown clothing, work paraphernalia, and random Amazon boxes.

So, on the one hand, I have inertia about a large, complicated, exhausting process. On the other hand, I have a disregarded space since every other project has been so much more important and urgent and visible.

Whew. And if that isn’t a metaphor for my life right now, I don’t know what is. In the last few months, I’ve finished my third manuscript, sent it out to agents, gotten so many rejections, and spent time regrouping and figuring out what’s next. Self-publishing seems like the best way forward, or at least better than shoving it into a drawer. And so, I’ve spent weeks forcing myself to make one small step forward each day on this process. I have both inertia and disregard because the idea of self publishing feels really hard and a lot like failure. But I keep telling myself that one small step each day is still one step, right?

Make a list of freelance editors to get this manuscript into shape.

Call or contact one and set up an appointment.

Talk to them.

Call another.

Talk to them.

And on and on. Somehow I found myself here. With a signed contract from a freelance editor and yearlong plan to launch the book, really launch it, next spring. And meanwhile, a stack of nonfiction and highlighter to start research on the next manuscript. And still, all of the inertia and disregard and panic-inducing doubts I’ve had all along.

But looking around this colorful house that makes me happy in the middle of the rainy, grey, cold days, I’m reminded that there’s more time than I think. And one room at a time ain’t too shabby as long as I don’t stop before I’m done.