How Not To Write Your Novel: Moving

I think I may have hit on something here – a sort of magic bullet for use against the impending Bad End of finishing a novel. As you may have gathered from the title (You’re bright kitties, aren’t you?) MOVING is it.

And I don’t mean, you know, leaning back and forth from one butt cheek to the other. No see, that’s EXERCISE. We’ll handle that kind of moving another day. I mean – let’s not go crazy, you know?

The moving I’m talking about is RELOCATING. Trading one domicile for another. Packing up the carnies, small hands, mysterious cabbage-y odor and everything, and trundling on down the road.

Have you tried it? ‘Cause I have. In fact, I’m in the middle of doing so right now! (No – not RIGHT now, genius. Right now I am imparting to you Great Wisdom. And most generously, I might add. You didn’t even ASK me, and here I am giving you advice for free!) I’m telling you – the whole process has worked fabulously to prevent any sort of writing from going on. Even THIS. I tell you, the cat is in serious danger of converting to Dust Bunny-dom. (And keeping kosher just isn’t within the realm of her capabilities. So you can see how that might be a problem, right?)

Here I sit, reconnoitering the local market. Scouting, as it were – scanning the listings for the perfect manor (or at least one we won’t won’t have to share with dangerous things) and there she sits, at my feet, mewing forlornly, her breath coming out in little dusty puffs. That’s right, my pretties, this moving business even keeps me from vacuuming the cat, let alone writing a novel!

Between looking for a suitable place (and believe me – this could take MONTHS), to waiting to get approved, to packing up the OLD lair (dwelling, den, lodge, or home), and actually MOVING, you could avoid writing for years!

For best results, I recommend repeating this process at least annually. By the time you’re finished settling into your new place enough to be at risk for doing some serious writing, it’ll be time to pack up again and shuffle down the road!*

And now, kiddies, I have to go find a box big enough to hold my bezoar collection. (It’d help if they weren’t so darn moist…) You all be good now, you hear? Do me a favor, too. If you see a modest-sized, mewling dust-cloud wandering around your yard, run the Dyson over it once or twice, eh? She’ll appreciate it and I’ll be happy to credit it to your account.

Good night, my wee dollies, and whatever you do…


*If you happen to be an ACTUAL carnie (and the chances of you being a carnie AND a novelist are, frankly, so slim as to be practically impossible), then I’m sure you know that annual relocation just won’t cut it. Despite their freakishly diminutive phalanges (and the curious tendency to spontaneously generate a potent aura of sauerkraut smell), carnies are remarkably efficient when it comes to vacating premises. IF you are one of that rare breed of imminent carnie novelists, move once a week, at least. For your safety as much as anything. It’s all fun and games ’til the townsfolk get their pitchforks.

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