Stories to finish (I have several in progress but not very far), a storage building to clear out, books to categorize, typewriters to count...the days are just packed.
The outside world puts a lot of pressure on us, it seems like there's no extra time to do anything. The days seem to fly by. It feels like there's no left time to do anything once you've done what you have to. Time management is indeed a problem, and to paraphrase the late Jim Croce, it would be just peachy to place time into some sort of glass container to preserve it. But no, it's just not possible.
So, in the next few days (in which I am still not getting a day off, go figure) I need to make some room here to get my things out of storage. There will never be enough space here, though, so I might have to pay an extra month and gradually bring it in over the next thirty days. I have eight typewriters here, plus one on the way, and there are many more in storage (33? I'm guessing). Also there is a chair, a few tables, boxes of books, and other assorted items that can never possibly fit, ever. It's a nightmare. But it's either get it out of there or continue to pay $46 a month to not have to look at it.
But I really want that chair. It's super comfy.
|The Comfy Chair in happier times, when it had room to cavort with the typewriters.|
I haven't mentioned I have another collection going, a growing stack of '60s/'70s sleazy spy fiction and also mainstream private eye novels, though there are a ton of those, too. I have a problem with shelf space now that I'm reacquiring some books I bone-headedly donated to charity last year in a misguided cleaning frenzy.
|A collection of sleazy spy fiction like no other. I am the shame of my family.|