There's a for sale sign in front of our house.
That was harder to take in than we thought it would be. Our little house isn't really ours any more. Starting Wednesday, people will parade through it to measure it up and decide if they want it.
I'm not really ready for this.
In order to get the house ready, I've started to sell books. Granted, they're books that I don't want to ever have to read again. bu-bye to Jameson and Adorno, to Veblen and Butler. They've been sitting on my shelf for the better part of 10 years now. I don't really want them--they're stuffy and difficult. They're not what you curl up with at night before bed. (At least they're not what I curl up with at night.)
I don't want them-- I just want what they represent. Selling them was a bit similar to selling the Camaro. I knew it had to go, but the idea of and then the sight of it driving away gave me a bit of a panic attack. Selling them means that it's really over. They were my reference books--the tools of my academic trade. Now they're going to grace the shelves of some young grad student (I didn't recognize the names of any of the people buying them in my department) who hasn't figured out yet that things have shifted in major and important ways in our discipline.
They're going to be someone else's future.
I'm replacing them with a single book- The Writer's Market. Because it's time for a new trade.
But hell if I know how that's gonna work.
PS- Stay tuned- The new blog is in the works.