I love books. I love to write them, I love to read them, I love the smell and feel of them.

I do not like packing them.

We sold the house yesterday (yay!) and now reality has set in. I have 6 weeks to pack my house of 10 years. The hardest part is sorting through the shelves and shelves of books. Even being as ruthless as possible, I still have 6 enormous boxes of books to move. That isn’t even counting my teacher books, that’s just my fiction books.

As I sorted through the books, I found myself sighing over ones I hadn’t read in a long time. I wanted to sit down and flip through them and catch up with old friends. For me, books are like comfort food. When I need to unwind or lick my wounds, I love to get lost in the pages of a good read.

Apparently, I need A LOT OF COMFORT, as my husband is sure to point out when it comes time to move all those boxes.

Nora Roberts, if I get a hernia, I’m blaming it on you, hahahahaha

Okay, back to packing!

I am moving. I’ve never moved houses before. This move came about suddenly. As in, we only saw the house we wanted to buy on January 14th and put our house on the market on the 22nd.

I’ve realized that selling a house is a lot like writing. I bust my butt to get everything as perfect as possible but there are still things that need more cleaning.

People are coming in and judging my hard work by appearances only and not considering the blood sweat and tears that went into it.

And I have to WAIT WAIT WAIT to find out if anyone wants my baby.

I’m so not cut out for this. I want to be sedated until the house is sold.

I also want to be sedated until my latest book is sold.

I’ve been told that writing is like childbirth, but as I’ve said before, at least during childbirth they give you good drugs.

By the time I’m done moving I’m going to need detox. . .