Now, I know why people hate moving so much.
Over the weekend, I’ve been continuing the process of reducing the amount of clutter in my apartment. As I go through drawers and closets, bookshelves and piles, I keep finding things that I should have discarded long ago. Sometimes, things bring up pleasant memories of the past, but more often than not, this stuff too often pulls me back into the past, reminding me of mistakes I have made and wrong turns I have taken. Or potentially beneficial actions I have neglected.
But, then, moments later, when I get rid of the stuff, I feel this odd sense of relief. I expect this cleaning process to improve my writing. It seems somewhat easier to write with less stuff in my apartment. I recall that when I lived in Charlottesville, I found it easier to write my novel with my laptop set up on the dining room table — in the least cluttered part of the apartment and not my study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and piles of magazines, newspapers and notes.