Being Who We Are

Our apartment is too small. Okay, truth is, our apartment is huge. 880 square feet for two people. We even have a half bath. But, in functionality, our apartment is too small.

We have one closet. While it's a walk-in, it's not the size of a room. It's in the bedroom, which means we have to do something else with our coats ~ and contrary to popular belief, it does get cold down here. Plus, you know, we've got a bit of rain occasionally. It also means we have to share closet space. And, with only one closet, no storage.

The living space is one room. For the living, the dining, the reading and painting and working and praying and meditating and XBoxing and hanging out.

The kitchen has five cabinets, two of which I cannot reach. Two people cannot stand back to back ~ say at the stove and at the sink ~ and function. They have to stagger, so they are shoulder to shoulder.

Our apartment is too small.

And yet ~ I love it. Oh, when our lease is up next November, I suspect we will move and I will quite happily occupy larger space. But, in spite of it all, I love it.  However, we have realized over the last few days that some changes need to be made if we are going to continue to live here until next November. If I am going to be able to continue to love it.

Both Lithus and I were on very different professional paths, at one point. He owned a wireless service business and had images of selling wireless internet access to hotels, so that they could offer their guests in-room internet. No one bought the idea, because no one would possibly want to be online on their computers while they were in a hotel room. :/ Anyway! He had his business, and even if hotels were short-sighted, it was his and it was going well. He had it made and this was who he was going to be! Until.

Until a series of unfortunate events. One afternoon, he stood in the office that was supposed to be his and realized ~ he was done. He was too beaten down, after this series of events, and just wanted out. So, he went back to aviation and here we are. But he's kept several boxes of stuff from that time.

For me, you've all seen me through becoming a published author, then an actual and for real novelist, then it took a hiccup. Then a lurch. What I didn't make public, though, because I had no witnesses to it, and didn't want to seem to be bragging at first, and then didn't want to say something that couldn't be verified later, was that the editor who died and whose death changed the course of my career wasn't just an editor in the romance genre. She was the editor. I have had authors literally bow down to me when they discovered this woman had signed me. I have had others stop being nice to me, because this woman had rejected them. And here's the thing ~ she loved my writing. The quote I have heard in my head at least once a week since her death is "You remind me of Barbabra Delinsky. You can be the next Nora Roberts. And Pobble, we are are going to make a lot of money together."

Only here's the rub ~ to my knowledge, she never told anyone else that but me. She assured me I had to write the second book on my own, but that she would be back in time to finalize the trilogy with me. And then we'd move on to even bigger and better things. It was the last conversation I ever had with her. Her successor didn't sign me to another contract. Our life hit the roughest patch either of us had ever seen. And writing fiction became a chore. A hobby. A way to feel like a failure. Um...really, not the point.

So, since the Christmas holiday, and the influx of new stuff that came with it ~ in fairness, stuff we love, stuff that increases happiness, not just stuff for stuff's sake, because we don't do that, but stuff that needs somewhere for it to live, nonetheless ~ we have looked at letting go. Accepting. Moving on. 

Lithus is not an IT guy any longer. The boxes of tech he has lugged around can be let go. Even if he gets back into the field, the technology is different enough that what we had in those boxes is irrelevant now, let alone if he ever gets back to programming. Space in our closet.

And me? I am not a novelist. Not right now, anyway. I'm a writer. Absolutely. And I love writing. I really love being paid to write. Both of those things are happening currently ~ the writing and the being paid to write ~ and that is making me happier and more fulfilled than being a novelist has in a very, very long time. Perhaps I will write another novel. For now, though, I'm not a novelist. Admitting it feels really good. I'm keeping a few copies of my novels, donating the rest. Space in our living room.

The extra space in the apartment feels good. The extra space in our souls feels even better.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.