We're attempting to sell our house. It's a nightmare of extraordinary proportions. When you elect to become a writer one of the first things you shave time off from to over to writing is the housework. Things sometimes get a bit dusty, stuff isn't always where it's supposed to be. Washing the windows is a chore reserved for the week you're supposed to summarize a 100,000 word book down to a 1000 words, but still somehow retain a sense of your own unique voice. In short, and doubly so if you have kids, you no longer live in a nice ordered show home.
But this is no good, when you are trying to sell your house.
It has to be tidy and neat.
Buyers don't want to see your research books piled upon the floor. They don't want to look at the post-it-notes you leave all over the desk detailing vitally important plot points. They get shirty about pics of naked blokes. Instead, they want plump cushions and swept floors and everything to be all gleaming white.
Very little in my house is white.
And suddenly cleaning is taking precedence over writing... I really don't like that. What's more my birthday is just around the corner, and what do you know... yep, that's the one day this week someone wants to come and take a look. So, no longer do I have a nice lie in bed to look forward to. Bye bye goes the prospect of stumbling around in my dressing gown eating chocolate. Nope, instead I'll be up mopping the kitchen floor and having stern words with the pet rabbit about not nibbling potential buyers feet.
I have to ask myself, is the promise of an office really worth all of this?
Somebody, please... just buy the darned house.