I just bought another bookshelf. Supposedly it is for my movies and other odds and ends. We all know it is going to house the books spilling over from my other bookshelf. Why else would I buy one? It is very pretty (thanks dad for putting it together). It will be even prettier when I have books on it. Obviously.
Somehow, somewhere in the back of my head, I was convinced that moving to this house would make me a better writer, a more organized person, and less stressed. Feel free to laugh all you want, I know it is ridiculous.
I leave dishes in the sink all. of. the. time. Sometimes I forget to switch the laundry and end up with damp clothes in the morning. It is a constant battle to keep my room clean, something I don’t remember dealing with quite so much before I moved out.
I don’t know if I thought I would have more time, or if I thought living alone would kick start those creative juices. Either way, I was wrong. Writing is still hard. I probably have less time for it than before, since there are dishes in the sink and school to do. I am the exact same person I was before I moved, just in a different location.
The same woman who forgets about the tea bags in her mugs until they dry and scatters books around her whole house in various stages of completion. Like supposing a new bookshelf will change how I organize my house but really won’t, I supposed a new location would change me.
My whole life I have wanted to be different. I figured that if I could only wear the perfect outfit, move to a different town, or switch churches, I would be different. That somehow I could escape the things I didn’t like about myself if I just moved far enough away. What if I went to England? Obviously I would be more confident, prettier, and a better writer there. It’s England for crying out loud! Well, I feel bound to inform you that I did not swap personalities just by crossing the ocean.
It kind of sounds depressing, doesn’t it? Here I am. Wherever I go, I come too. It doesn’t matter where my desk is, the same insecurities will show up whenever I start writing.
I could stop there. Live my life moping over the fact that I can’t change who I am because I put a new dress. I don’t want to do that. Life is hard enough without crying over the impossible.
Here is my thought, if moving won’t change what I want changed, what will? Unfortunately, the same thing that has been staring at my face for the last four years. Hard work!
And everyone makes a face.
If I want to be an author, a fancy desk and a library will not make me one, a book will. A book that I wrote. If I want to be healthier, getting a new fridge or a new cookbook will not automatically make me so. Healthy eating and exercise (blech) will.
This isn’t to say that moving out didn’t change me at all, I am much better at cooking now (I think), and way better at sticking to my to do list. I am a better person for all these experiences, but not necessarily a different person. If I want to change things about myself, I will have to put in the work to do it.
Maybe I won’t like every step of the journey, but I know I will like the destination.
Hello me, are you ready?