Renovating houses (and trying to stay alive whilst doing so)

Apologies for the silence. Manic does not quite suffice to explain how ridiculously mad my life is right now. We have been busy, so much so my diet consists of every multivitamin legally available and generous glasses of red wine in the evening. Thankfully I haven’t noticed any new ‘smile lines’ or lost any hair in the process of fixing up our house in time to move in next weekend. Yes, you read correctly. We move in next week. Ha. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. Right, here’s the progress in pictures…

 

The beginning of the great wall

 

The wall in progress

 

The hubs finishing up the wall

 

We decided we didn’t like that wall

 

Remnants of the kitchen wall and all the wiring to be done

 

Wiring complete. My husband and father-in-law are bad-A

 

What’s going to be the breakfast bar

 

Finding studs

There are even more pics after this weekend’s gruelling workload. It’s happening, it’s finally starting to look like our home and even the musty smell is fading (thank you Airwick).
Much love,
E

 

 

Dithering

I’ve just wasted a lot (and I mean a lot) of good writing time, trying to make my ridiculous excuse of a mobile phone work. The reason why? I needed a picture from Instagram. The importance of the picture? To put at the top of this entry. Yes, a ridiculous waste of time, made more so by the fact I was completely unsuccessful. I reset passwords, discovered the real wording of an old email address (not the one I’ve been handing out to students-sorry about that) and somehow got distracted by Twitter.

Social media, you are my marketing saviour, but you’re also my doom. I have seven windows open. All of which have been opened since I first decided to write this blog about ‘writer’s block’ nonetheless.

So, I’ll return to course, seeing as I’m a rubbish picture researcher (though I strongly blame Instagram for a most incompetent site).

After failing to nap, mainly due to the suffocating feeling of realising I have not written a piece of fiction for so long it could be considered indecent, I decided to sit in the front room and think until my brain burst with nothingness. This then lead me to want to write about the bitter bleakness of always running out of rope in story ideas or watching all the twine unravel. Then I got distracted with the whole picture thing.

I think I’ve discovered what writer’s block is, for me at least is the acute absence of focus or fervour in a story or idea. I’m too wishy-washy. I compare myself with others all the time. I covet others’ successes and literary brilliance. I forget how they worked themselves into cold sore fevers to finish and make sense of their plots and crafted and recrafted until it resembled what it does on my shelf or Kindle.

I’m a greedy critter who wants the glory, but shies away from the brutal hard work that is demanded in writing fiction. I love words, more than sense, but the art  of seeing a story shape or being the one to shape it, is still my biggest struggle.

People have ideas all the time. Every second of the day something flashes across our minds. Yet, only a few are willing to burn the candle in words of my favourite writer:

“My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It gives a lovely light” – Roald Dahl

On that note, I must stop dithering and must start trying.

A Prairie Home Companion, Emmylou and our house on the corner

Oops, I thought, I had posted this. Oh, well. Here it be.

Right, I promised I would upload some pics of our recent purchase and I’ve decided to do so tonight before the week begins in earnest.

It's gradually changing into our home - can't wait to paint it!

I think we were changing locks in this shot

Future dining room

Guest room

It has a fireplace

Since these photos were taken, we’ve done tonnes of work on cleaning, tearing up old carpet, taking out lethal nails and staples to get ready to sand, washing and painting walls, sorting out the garden, picking colours etc. It’s been full throttle and there’s no chance of it letting up if we’re to meet our 2nd June deadline. (Not for the whole house, but for the three pivotal rooms- bedroom, bathroom and kitchen.)

This week’s project is to finish the distressed wall on the east side wall of our bedroom. Will load up some pics soon!

We actually didn’t do any house work this weekend because I took Kendall down to Nashville, TN to see his favourite show, ‘A Prairie Home Companion’. (His Christmas present) It’s something grandparents and their friends are into, but there we were giggling away and enthralled at the live music, the ‘is-he-a-real-person’ sound effects man, the sounds of dynamite bluegrass, Garrison’s hysterical people watching Woebegone stories and the talents of the ever beautiful, Emmylou Harris.

It was Kendall that introduced me to her and it’s him I must thank for reminding what songwriting is supposed to do. I shan’t jabber away, but rather let you listen and decide for yourself. Perhaps you too will hope that music will come back to this- the tonic and medicine to our ailing souls.

Book readings, making new friends and…oh yes, on the Barnes and Nobles Common Themes shortlist!

Firstly, forgive me for my long drawn out silence. The last time we spoke I was purging my eyeballs of all the water they had because of the US immigration situation. Needless to say, all is resolved. I am the happy owner of a snazzy green, hologram card with an extraordinarily dodgy signature from me (that’s what they get after making me sign documents after a 14 hour traveling day!) Yes, the green card. It honestly looks a bit like a library card.

So, we’re here in Indianapolis, throwing down some roots in the form of a Victorian house in Fountain Square (the artisan quarter), which is taking all of sleep, energy and money to make a home. It’s got great big ceilings and windows, tons of real wood trim and hardwood floors (and a fireplace!) But, it’s also got a stacked chimney, water clogged cold air returns, a fried gas furnace board and a basement with the dreaded seeping damp smell. Try as I may, I haven’t yet conquered it. We bought a humidifier, which has worked so hard it froze up at the back. We’ll get it a friend, so they can purr and purify our basement together. I’ll post some pictures. Soon.

Now to yesterday. Gah, simply the best day ever! Not only was I invited by the lovely Aryn Schounce to take part in one of the most authentic neighborhood get-togethers with Hoosiers and the Burmese collective, I was able to read a bit from my book and remember all over again why it is I write.

Teaching English at ELS has been near soul destroying so be able to weave words, piece together imagery and connect with others finally brought this dying heart back to life.

I sold out of my books (Eddie, my marketing guru, I hope you’re reading this!), was asked by several impressive bods to join them in future projects and then to my utter delight (and amazement) left speechless by the news that my book has been shortlisted at the IUPUI Barnes and Noble campus ‘Common Theme Shortlist’. HUZZAH!

I am thoroughly taken aback and truly thankful. It seems things have been happening in the quiet and secret places and are only being revealed to me now.

Turns out my publisher have been so happy with my work to date, they’ve asked me to write for them again. Whoop! Can not say very much just yet- only that it’ll be different from Unnoticed Neighbors, but no less an exciting ride.

Simply cannot wait for all that’s still to come.

Much love,

-E

No energy for witty subject lines

Twilight on the Thames

I was trying to think of something clever to call this post and then I realized my poor brain is so exhausted from my most recent crying bout, that it’s not possible.

It’s been a troublesome couple of weeks and it culminated yesterday with the US consular officer telling me “Congratulations” on passing the interview, but that they weren’t going to issue me my much-needed visa until I had sent in some more documents. Thus, the crying bout which lasted quite successfully with only a few interruptions from about 11am until half past midnight when sleep decided to take me.

Dreadful still doesn’t quite encapsulate yesterday’s low. That said, I’ve realized it’s usually in those moments I rant and rave and doubt there is any goodness in the world and then that’s when I see the most beauty.

In the form of friends and my older sister who called me, in my younger sister who bought me lunch and my favorite Ginger Beer, in the form of friends who wrote all over my wall said a prayer, sent a positive vibe, simply said hello. It came in the form of my parents who sat with me, but didn’t overwhelm me. It came in the form of my dear Kendall, who was quiet and courageous and immediately asked what he could do, even though I know his heart had broken into hundreds upon hundreds of little tiny pieces.

Every single person was like a little flame, lighting up the impossible descending darkness.

And so I’ll be here for our 2nd wedding anniversary. I’ll be here for Thanksgiving next week. I am puzzled by how things have turned out, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that bad things happen to people, be them of good or bad stock. It’s having others be with you in those times that make the great injustice of it all that bit more bearable.

Today has been better. I haven’t cried. I’ve eaten far too many clementines and read lots of my new book, ‘Remember, remember’ A History of Britain and I’ve researched for my own next book.

We’ve worked on collecting these documents and I’m not biting my thumb at the heavenlies. I’m not all the way there yet, but I’m a lot further along.

I owe a lot of that to you all.

Thank you.

O Children

I am desperately trying to do some work on a new book (fiction) which equates to a plethora of notes, doodles, open internet windows and distractions.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seed’s ‘O Children’ has to be the biggest distraction yet. I can’t seem to stop playing it and it keeps tugging away at me, tearing me open to think of children everywhere both real and imagined and what it means to be a child today.

It’s an old song (1994) and I was introduced to it watching Harry Potter 7 Part 1.

I shan’t go on. Have a listen for yourself.

 

Oh, how Dickens’ London lives

                                

Perhaps it’s just my increasing frustration with certain London newspapers (The Evening Standard) and their persistent wish to stir up a mad frenzy of fear in Londoners about immigrants, crime rates and who’s committing those crimes (dark-skinned boys and girls who wear hoods and live on council estates and carry knives). Or maybe it’s the ongoing old tosh being fed to just band together, pay off our credit cards (shut our eyes and count to three) and everything will be all better that’s left me riled.

Either way, ever since I got back to London at the end of Sept I have been floored as to just how much my dear England is in the throes of something awful. While our government tries to work out which way is up and how to get their friends, a particular Mr Fox, out of the pickle he’s landed himself in, and work out what did indeed cause those riots (although according to David Starkey how could we be surprised, Enoch Powell warned us of this ages ago)- the rest of us are left grappling with ever rising rents, salaries (if you’re lucky enough to have one) that have been hit with the immobulus charm, the lack of jobs and its happy friend, unemployment, oh yes and ever growing cuts.

This isn’t to say the government isn’t trying to sort the ailing state of John Bull, but there just seems to be a great disconnect, a great divide. Which has left me goggle-eyed. There has always been a general hope, excitement, headiness about London and now there’s a hurt. Now there’s an incredible fear and unrelenting worry as to how we get out of this hole. Which has made me think so much of London whilst Dickens lived and walked about.

It was a time of great industrial developments, imperial expansions and technological leaps and yet for most nameless, ordinary people their lives were short, unglamorous and a painful struggle for survival until Cholera spent their final breath.

We are not suffering the ‘Great Stink of 1858′, nor are bodies floating on the Thames or are there any workhouses to employ the poor or hovels for houses, but I wonder if there’s a similar feeling of resignation amongst those of us who do not grace the hallowed halls of Parliament and do not decide how the country’s money is spent or how the debt is reduced. We’re left to trust those in office who keep getting caught in their own greed or who bandy about ridiculous advice like ‘pay off your credit cards’, with no real suggestion as to how exactly to do that.

And I am left wondering if perhaps we’re not in need of a serious overhaul. An overhaul of the banking world and its obscene bonuses, of lavish personal spending (not just the rich or middle-classes, but all), of taxes and how our MPs and PM spends them and the interest on debts that seem to be the only things that are growing steadily.

Dickens’ works are classics because they start in the 19th century and they continue with us here. They contain characters that we can still see and they captured a world on the cusp of splendor and hell, which sadly, we aren’t all that far away from.

A little something for you :)

Here’s a little something I wrote earlier in the summer. If you missed it then- it’s not too late to delve into it now. So find somewhere comfy (a good squishy chair, or by a fireplace, or in your kitchen or your favorite corner of your coffee shop) and dive right in. Happy reading my wee ones…

http://www.thehousestudio.com/wp/2011/08/17/dancing-at-funerals-and-little-people-with-big-hearts/

He came, he saw, he conquered

Windmills. New energy.

Today as I stood freezing my every appendage in Victoria station I took out my iPhone to Tweet as such when I read that Steve Jobs had left us last night.

There on the very thing he had dreamed about, sweated through, talked about, convinced about- I learned he had gone.

I scoured new sites and there was his picture in black, white and grey staring back pensively.

The world is full of many brilliant people, some of whom we’ll never know by name, but I wonder how many have the gall to believe as Steve did that they really could do and achieve anything they want to.

I shan’t rehash his biography (plenty of other journalists have done so already). I would humbly like to simply say thank you.

Thank you to the parents who maybe erred when this half- Arab Egyptian half-American tot came into the world, thank you to the parents who took him as his own. Thank you for where he came from and who he was, which was someone who was determined to live life to the full inspite of death eating him from the inside and maybe even because of it.

And most sincerely thank you to his family that sheltered him, embraced him, laughed and wept with him in the privacy of their home so that in his leaving, he was never for a second left alone.

Every now and again we’re granted to see God’s finest works. It always has and I believe always will be in people.

Especially in zen-buddhist, vegetarian, acid-dropping people who mix the arts and tech.

Sleep well.

Steve Jobs 1955-2011.

Camping, bookselling and house hunting

Well helloooo there,

Hope this message finds you well on this wet afternoon here in Manassas, Virginia. Right now we’re staying with some of Kendall’s old college friends from Olivet Erin and Paul Anderson and their sweet pup, Dobby. I mean with a name like that how can you not but love him? He’s got these ears that just flop around playfully and he loves to kiss and snuggle-adorable.

The tour continues and we’re in-between shows and readings so I have a brief minute after wolfing down a yummy couscous salad (thanks, Erin!) to scribble a bit.

It’s been great being able to continue to meet so many wonderful people. It’s so refreshing in these bleak times we’re in to know that good ol’ fashioned community and hospitality lives on.

It’s been fun and a little hard sharing my book with people. Fun, because, flip, I’m finally a published author and have a book to prove it. Hard because marketing myself is weird. Talking yourself up and the product seems strange and fairly arrogant. I have to remind myself I’m not telling anyone I’m better than they are or any better at navigating this bizarre life thing, but just that I have the determined stubbornness to try and capture some of it on virtual ink. Hard because how can you give 250+ pages justice in a few sentences (because in all reality when someone asks you what your book is about-that’s all you’ve really got to reel them in-hook, line and sinker). Hard because quite frankly I still can’t believe this has happened to me. When you’ve waited as long as I have and lived vicariously through others it’s suddenly most overwhelming to realise it’s your turn and you must live it well.

Despite all that, I will try and live it well. So the offer still stands for me to come and speak at your book group, coffee/tea meetings, crafts group (I’ll bring my never ending scarf too!), local bookshop, cafe or church. Anywhere where there are some willing ears to hear me ramble (relevantly, of course).

Now to the other stuff. Driving through America on tour has made my mind swell with ideas. Every time we plough through another forest or creep past the edge of a state park, across creeks and over mountain passes I’m made more aware of all that is invisible around us. All the many beating breaths of people here and gone. I can’t stop thinking about America’s history. It’s ugly days with cotton fields and prairie marches to its history before Europe, with the ancient ways of the Native Americans (I’ve checked and it’s okay to describe our friends as such). I’m floored with its still incredibly beautiful present despite all the development and production and its tentative future in an age of ‘me, you and everything we’re afraid of’. So naturally a story has been stirring. It’s nestled in quite deep and is sleeping in its gestation, but I already know it’ll be a mammoth task- so much so I’m about to email my favourite American historical fiction writer to seek her advice.

As if all of that wasn’t enough-we’re house-hunting. I feel legitmitely old now. I am house hunting. Not to rent, to buy. Yes, we’re that serious. Eek. Indianapolis still has our hearts, so that’s where we’ll return and when you receive messages like the one we got from dear Benjamin Blevins, it’s easy to see why.

The road has and continues to carry us into the new and old, but I simply can’t wait to finally park our Toyota Camry (still running, please God) in our drive way outside a lemon coloured house.

I’ll be speaking and playing at Crossroads, Church of the Nazarene (in the D.C.) area this Sunday. If you’re nearby, I’d love to see you!

p.s. Massive chorus of love to my Mai on her birthday today!

p.p.s. Can’t wait for the final installment of my advance (MACBOOK here I come!)

Marmalade- our beloved tent