Epiphany.

Not sure if that's how you spell it, but I figured out why I am so irritable lately:
I can't write.
It's not a choice at this point. I CAN'T do it. I have only unpacked my kitchen and half of my laundry room and half of my Master bedroom, I've hardly put a dent in the boxes, and I haven't written a word in weeks, except for this blog. And it's infuriating as hell.

To add insult to injury, the special services people couldn't find a major part to my writing desk, and it's all lopsided. I had to file with the moving company, and they're taking care of it, but now I have no writing desk (we're destroying it for scrap) and all my books are still packed and my office is silent and dark and empty, with boxes and a broken desk. And I wouldn't dream of unpacking it any time soon...I still have to FINISH the first floor and then it's the kids rooms, then the guest room, then all the bathrooms, and then the basement (where we hang out the most) and THEN, only then, will I be able to unpack my office and my writing things. Of course if it was just me by myself I'd have that office unpacked and set up FIRST. But I have a husband and three kids who really do need to have clothes for school and be able to find their stuff. It's been an eye-opener, to say the least.

So, we're talking about a month at least before I'll be able to get to my office, let alone write at my desk. This is disheartening. It's aggravating. It sucks, for want of a better word. And I'm so crazy with unpacking I don't even have time to write in my head. The Muse has left me, until I get my Writing Space up and running.

Ergo, I'm a major CRAB lately. I'm antsy. I'm irritated at everything. The balance of my life is thrown off-kilter.

At least I know now the source of my discontent. I still have a pen and paper by my bedside, in case the creative vibe strikes, but it's like my Muse has "lost the will to write" without all my "writing comforts."

It's a tragedy. I HATE moving. Too much chaos for me. Ppphhhbbbttttt.