Have I Read You?

And other anxieties as I make this GIANT MOVE.

My gnomes are going with me. I wonder if they’ll like it there?

Hi friends, and welcome to my New Subscribers! So good to see you all here! I’ve been busier than usual for the past couple of weeks with one thing and another, and I’m sorry if you’re feeling neglected. (I’m even sorrier if you didn’t even notice I was missing.)

Fingers still crossed, but it looks like my house sale is moving ahead and I should be in my new place before May 1. I’ve been packing like crazy—when I’m not pondering over those things that will either come with me or won’t. I’ve picked them up and put them down so many times it’s a wonder they don’t just run away all by themselves.

I’ll hate leaving this beautiful place but I’m excited about starting anew. I’ll of course be bringing along pieces from my old life here, but I’ll be buying some new or newish furniture, prowling the thrift and antique shops, slowly transforming those empty rooms into cozy spaces, filling them with what feels like comfort to me.

It’ll be mine. It’ll be me. When my friends and family walk into my new digs for the first time there won’t be any question about who lives there. It’ll be a mix of the old and the new, but it’ll all work together. It’ll be cozy. It has to be. I do insist on cozy.

The color tones will be autumnal, as always—red, green, rust, teal, yellow, orange, brown, tan…but lightened with cream. Lots of cream.

And, it goes without saying, no gray:

Why HGTV and I can Never Be Friends.

The contrast between my quiet island cottage and this new town apartment will take some getting used to, but once I’ve decorated it to my liking, pulling it all together with those few things Ed and I have treasured, I’ll have made it the haven I’m looking for.

But then there will be the people. All the new people. Strangers. Strangers who will want to get to know me, who will be asking questions that, as a writer, I’ll be madly trying to edit and filter in an attempt to leave out the superfluous, the unnecessary, the boring; choosing only those words that will make me seem cool but not precious, old enough but not too wise, the person they won’t leave and immediately make judgements.

You know how private I think I am. I’m getting worse. This is going to be a tough one, this figuring out what I’ll tell them and what I won’t.

I’m moving to a resort town along Lake Michigan, where a whole lot of interesting and artistic people have chosen to live, and I’m excited about that, but here’s where my old anxieties are already threatening to fully bloom:

They’re going to ask me what I do. Or what I did. If I tell them I’m a writer they’ll want to know what I write. If one of them says, “Have I read you?” I swear I’ll curl up and die. I know that phrase calls for a snappy, snarly, clever retort, but remember, I’m going to be new there. And you already know I’m compulsive about wanting everyone to like me. (My cross to bear. We’ve talked about this before.)

There was a time when I could tell them what I write—magazine pieces, columns, feature articles in a major newspaper—and the names of the publications would at least be recognizable. That would have been enough to satisfy them. No dilettante there!

And now I blog. Not that blogging doesn’t have it’s place or that I’m ashamed of what I write. Far from it. I’m probably the happiest I’ve ever been as a writer, and the format here at Substack means I get to know my readers far more intimately than I ever have in any other venue. I love that. But how will I explain in a few words what I do here?

Here at Writer Everlasting I mainly write about writing. That one’s easy. But over at Constant Commoner, I’m writing about my life in a cabin on an island in the boonies (soon to come to an end), about widowhood and grieving, about my old age, about odd or funny things that have happened to me or that strike me strongly enough to want to write about them.

And about politics and advocacy. That’s always the stickler, isn’t it? Political writers have distinct points of view that don’t always mesh with their friends and acquaintances. I can’t get any real sense about where I’ll fit in politically in this particular town. The stats show they vote mainly Republican, which shouldn’t surprise me. It is a resort town and there’s money there. But it’s also a community of artists and creatives and normal people who aren’t always buying things. Like me. So there’s that.

But what about my apartment complex? My neighbors? The truth: Apartment living is new for me. I haven’t done it since the mid-50s, when Ed and I were childless newlyweds, and then it was only for a few months until we could move into a house.

This apartment looks more like a townhouse and I’ll have my own ground-level entrance, but I’ll still be living closer to people than I have in many decades. I’ll make something of an effort, but they’re going to have to make an effort, too.

Not that I’ll insist…

What if I just don’t tell anybody I’m a writer? It would save a lot of angst on my part. I could just say I’m retired. From secretarial work, which wouldn’t be a lie. I was a secretary before and even while I was a writer.

Nah, I won’t do that. I know me. I’ll blurt it out, I’ll probably even hand out my business cards, and when nobody responds I’ll have my feelings hurt because writing is the most important work in the world to me and if they want to be my friend they’re going to have to at least acknowledge that they see me not just as an old woman decorating her apartment with sketchy and definitely outdated thrift store finds, but as a woman doing the work she loves—the work she does full time. (So don’t come knocking at my door at any old hour, okay?)

That’s all I ask.

Not that I would say any of that out loud. No, I’ll just see how it goes. It’ll probably be fine. I’ll probably be fine. I’m glad I got this out of the way. Now I can get back to packing.

Unless you want to talk some more.

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