Speaking of...

On Writing, Moving, Back Aches, and Love

Last Monday, Chris and I moved to a new spot in Porto. I like that we already have an old spot in Portugal.

“You wanna go by the old homestead?” is something my mom often says when I’m back in town, which means we’re about to take a ride past the house where I grew up. Since I’m a sucker for all things nostalgic, the answer is always yes.

I’m enjoying the fact that we already have an “old homestead” in this “new to us” part of the world.

Our new place is a bit smaller than the last, which is really saying something. We are officially the downsiziest. The new digs are cute as a bug. Plus, there’s a grocery store just downstairs, and a Starbucks ten steps outside our building. I love when the universe is like, “Watch this!”

This last week was full of unboxing, sleeping around boxes, and wondering what’s in boxes. We’ve both been wearing combinations of clothes that have never before been worn because we grabbed for whatever we could reach. It hasn’t been our cutest week, and we’ve actually had to get used to looking like regular people. Can you imagine?

Currently, I’m sitting at my new tiny desk that I’m crazy about. There are pics of my mom, friends, and family sitting in front of me, with a small, glass forget-me-not ornament sitting next to them. There’s a man upstairs, David F., who is assembling wardrobes from IKEA because Portugal decided not to have closets. Also because we don’t assemble. Can’t assemble is more accurate. And I’m giving a little life update because there isn’t much else to do until things are ship-shape.

Speaking of…

I think I’ve made it clear I’m a bit of a neatnik. I’m the guy who will clean before cleaning. Wrapping Christmas presents in a biochemical laboratory would be pure delight. Baby Jesus in a sterile containment manger. Yes please. It’s definitely an ADHD thing, or a way to manage ADHD, I suppose. Clean spaces, free of clutter make my brain work. I’m not typically an anxious person, but clutter does it for me. Not YOUR clutter. If your place is cluttered, I’m fine. But when things are in the stage we’re currently in, I feel confused. Like I’m wandering the streets on an acid trip. Who am I? And why is there a potato masher in my pocket?

So when this transition into the new place began, I had a sit down with myself and listened to every word I had to say. Which was mainly, “Knock it off.” So I did. And it worked, although that window of sanity is rapidly closing. It’s why I’m writing you this letter. Because there’s a Juliet balcony nearby, and writing is a better option. One I can survive.

Speaking of writing…

I’ve been sending out query letters, trying to find a fiction agent. I’ve had one request for a full manuscript, which was exciting. Haven’t heard back yet, probably because she’s waiting until Christmas to let me know that all the publishers in NYC are passing it around due to it’s life-changeyness.

Yesterday, I sent out two queries that I’d worked hard on—personalizing tf out of them for Dan and Allison. This morning, I woke up to their replies, which was comforting. Mainly because they responded so quickly. But also because when you get rejections so soon after sending, it means they actually read them before hating me, my idea, my life, and all things ever associated with me.

Writing is a funny business. You write and edit, write and edit, and one day, you finish. Then you read the glory of it all and are like, “Wow… this is some of my best work.” Then after months (or years) of querying and rejections, you realize that if the file to the book file you’d put blood, sweat, and more blood into was suddenly deleted, you’d be fine with it. Maybe think…

It was probably for the best, since it was 95,000 words of blather blather thunder clatter… and no one wants to read about a sad beaver who left his beaver home at thirteen, and opened a vegan restaurant on the south side of Toronto.

Holding on to the hope and the belief that you actually have something to say is the hardest part of writing. At least for me. But it’s all I know how to do. My singing days are over. My pastoring days are over. If I could teach aerobics, I would… but my back.

Speaking of…

My back is a HOT MESS. I grunt for the first hour of each day because bending over is essential in the morning. There’s the putting on pants. Pulling on socks. Throwing things away. Sitting.

Thankfully, physical therapy starts in January. With two bulging discs, I’m not sure what they can do, but I’m told they can tighten things… work the baby muscles around the bulging parts, and apparently that will hold me together so I don’t turn to dust.

If you’ve had a bad back, you understand the fear of staring at a pair of shoes that are not already on your feet. It’s some real Alfred Hitchcock type shit. “The Shoes.” And you wonder if they’re really necessary when you’ll just be riding the metro across town.

A few months ago, I got a cortisone shot, and it worked exactly like they said it would—for two weeks. But those two weeks were a miracle. I was doing crazy stuff, like throwing things in the trash. Getting out of bed. Turning around. Grunt-free. Gruntless. Then slowly, the pain returned, followed by more grunting. I still haven’t learned to speak Portuguese, but I can speak Caveman like a champ.

Grunt grunt… hand me shoes. Grunt owie! Hold me.

Speaking of…

Chris is taking Portuguese lessons and is getting really good. Also, it’s cute, because when he hears someone say something in Portuguese on the street—ya know, someone like a stranger—he seems to think that makes them friends. So he makes eye contact and lets out a giggle like something happened, and they’re both in on it.

You know how you marry someone and they do things you’d never do and say things you’d never say and think in ways you’d never think? It’s the element of surprise, and personally, I love it.

We’re both extroverts, but he’s more like my sister was. Pegged. Needle all the way to the right. So if a table of people in a restaurant all start laughing, he smiles immediately, and looks over their way, like he knows exactly what’s happened over there. But he doesn’t. Regardless, he cosigns their laughter. He’s all in. A good time is being had, and he’s part of it, whether they know it or not.

I can’t explain how much I admire this little trait. Being joyful… for everyone. Even if they’re not actually funny, he’s fully present. Fully supportive.

In my brain, I’m funny. My friends are funny. Strangers are not funny unless I decide. For Chris, if people are having a good time, he’s having a good time. Then he pushes his way into that good time.

Okay, I better stop now or this is going to turn into a love letter—I can feel it coming. So for now, that’s all.

Moral of this rambling story? Tonight, our clothes will finally be in wardrobes. And I’ll sleep like a baby knowing that when I wake up tomorrow and grunt my way into my clothes, order will be restored. My back will still ache. My novels will still be unpublished. But also, I’ll still be in love with my man. And he’ll still be laughing. And honestly, that’s enough for me.