So it was time to tackle my workroom. It's cold up there in winter and hot in summer so this is my grace period. It 's where my quilting stuff is, and it's where I wrote five of my novels. Nowadays, I don't use it much--the light is better at the dining table for painting and I no longer make quilts as my back complains after a half an hour at the sewing machine.
Which means that the room has degenerated into a cobweb-covered repository for twenty some years of stuff, much the same as the scenario in my friend Gretchen's card above.
Currently I'm sorting through the paper trail of my alleged writing career: outlines, proposals, chapter by chapter records of various books . . .
. . . the occasional attempt at a haiku . . .
. . . more chapter by chapter records, as well as vast quantities of research for each book. And there were the talks that I gave at bookstores and other venues . . .
. . . and the accumulated lesson outlines of many years of teaching writing.
Really, it's sobering, tossing out (recycling) the record of so much work. But it's that much less for the young uns to deal with eventually. And it's a pleasant look back at some interesting times.
And here and there, I come across something funny.
