My esteemed fellows in Inkpottery are writing beautiful posts that thoughtfully plumb the depths of lovely writing metaphors--this is the sort of thing they do, after all. Meanwhile I have spent the last week cleaning up after an extremely sick little boy. There are all sorts of metaphors I could plumb here, and all sorts of in depth descriptions I could give you about the things I have spent my mornings and evenings cleaning up--for I am a writer, after all, and this is the sort of thing I do--but I do so want to keep my job. So I'll just leave it to your ample, writerly imaginations.
I'm in the process of moving and trying to get a house on the market in the moments when I'm not cleaning up various disgusting substances, and I'm sure there are metaphors to be found in the layers of stuff in the basement, in the pieces of toys from homeowners past found behind radiators, in the storage containers full of things that each must be taken out and looked it and remembered and examined: You were something I acquired once, something I kept once, something that has sat here in these giant plastic containers because at one point in my life I could not let go of you. And now, now that I have had a little more time away from you, now that so much has passed, what am I going to do with you now?
On second thought, there's no metaphor there.
I have sitting in my in box an editorial letter for my latest book. Writers do so enjoy bragging about the length of their editorial letters--Oh yeah, well, mine was fourteen pages! And of course they are always single-spaced. This is the important detail. This is the one that really puts into focus the absurdity of the length. Well, I have now won this conversation for all of eternity. Mine is twenty-one pages. Single-spaced. Take that, Koertge. So after the hurly-burly has been cleaned up from my floor, I will be taking out bits of my book, looking at them, remembering, and examining. And, as miserable as the process can be, it beats preschool effluvium.