A Life Decluttered: The Move & Merge Part I

My Brooklyn bookshelf/desk.

I moved away from Brooklyn the week of Christmas. The Boyfriend (he's put a ring on it since then, guys) drove across the country alongside a vicious snowstorm to move me. I'd really embraced minimalism during those NYC days. I’m talking pared down. I’d even gotten rid of my desk, repurposing the middle shelf of my bookcase as a makeshift writing space. NYC bedrooms are comparable to Midwest closets, however I preferred space over stuff. I still do. So, I sold my bedroom furniture to the girl taking my room. Everything else would fit in The Boyfriend's car. I travel light.

I'd lived in New York for seven years by then. The first two were in Manhattan, and then I crossed the river to the borough of Brooklyn. And I started writing. That wasn't the plan but that's what happened. I'd spent the better part of ten years dreaming of acting, studying it, teaching it, pursuing it. And then one day I sat down at my desk and found an outlet for my creativity that I could do all by myself, in quiet solitude. Turns out I'm an introvert (thanks Susan Cain, for the illumination). I didn't question the shift from acting to writing. (And I question everything.) I just sat down every day and wrote. 

Five years later, I had a half-written novel and several scripts (and countless drafts) under my belt. There'd been exciting moments but more often than not there was a lot of waiting. Waiting for so-and-so to read it, waiting for [insert production company] to decide if they wanted to take it on, waiting for the stars to align. But waiting isn't my style. So I'd keep my head down and focus on the next project. And when I least expected it, a promising event would occur.

That's what happened the week of my move. 

It began with a phone call during the last night at my Survival Job. For years I'd been supporting my writing habit by working as a legal assistant from 4-12 four nights a week at a big international law firm. It served me well. After a day of writing I found respite organizing thousands of documents. My colleagues, also creatives by day, were my band of brothers. That bit of corporate America sustained me all those years in New York. So that last night was the end of an era. And what came next was a whole bunch of Unknown, which made me incredibly uncomfortable. Would this relationship work out? Would my burgeoning writing career survive even though now I'd have to fly to the coasts to network? Would the industry take me seriously? Who moves for a man? (Like I said, I question everything.)

So there I was in a huge high rise in midtown Manhattan, packing up what little remained in my office, and my producers called me. They never called me. Least of all on the Friday night before Christmas. A couple years back they'd come on board to produce one of my scripts, and the project had become the Little Engine that Could. Not exactly an easy movie to get made in Hollywood -- a period piece about black woman living as a white woman. A shoot 'em up blockbuster this was not. But my producers believed in it as much as I did and were in it for the long haul.

And that night they called me to let me know that The A List Actress had read the script and wanted to meet. In Los Angeles. The day after Christmas. 

Which was the day of the move.

So it never rains but it pours, people. 

I called The Boyfriend. He was somewhere in Ohio driving through the blinding snow. For months he'd been working like a dog at his job. Now he was driving through a blizzard. Not exactly a relaxing holiday. So I thanked him for all that -- then let him know I'd be leaving him by himself for 72 hours because I needed to fly to L.A. and have lunch with The A List Actress so that she'd attach to my script.

And that's what happened. We had Christmas in Brooklyn, just he and I. My roommates were away and we got the apartment to ourselves. We went to BAM in the afternoon and saw a movie with a bunch of New Yorkers (they love a movie on Christmas day). We strolled the avenues of Park Slope (all decked out for the holidays). We made ourselves a Christmas feast - he made the meat, I made the veggies (the beginning of a tradition). Early the next morning I gathered my little carry-on and flew across the country. The lunch with The A List Actress was fun and exciting. She was on board to star. 

I felt like the Universe was giving me a sign. A sign that it was okay to move. That it was the 21st century and I could write from anywhere, and anywhere else was just a plane ride away. That my projects would have whatever lives they were supposed to have regardless of my locale. That it was okay to let go of ideas of who I thought I was supposed to be and just live my life.  

So I took the red eye back to Brooklyn, took a shower and began loading the car. By now I was about three nights shy of sleep. All the excitement and a red eye? Forget about it. But I forged ahead and shifted gears to one of my favorite activities: packing.

I love packing. I'm serious. Spatial arrangements, finding a place for everything - I lose track of time. And I'm good at it. Who brags about her packing skillz?! I know. I get it, guys. It's weird. But I'm really good at it. Seven years prior I'd packed my mother's little car for my move from Charlottesville to Manhattan. I had more stuff (absurd amounts of awful clothes, mountains of books, my CD collection, and on and on) and I still managed to get it all in one car. Basically packing is an art form and I'm the artist.

But not that morning. 

As little as I owned, there just seemed to be more and more stuff and less and less room. Because of my sleep deprivation I wasn't functioning with all cylinders spinning. And I didn't have a back up plan. I'd paired down my belongings to such an extent that I actually wasn't willing to part with anything. 

So I cried. I stood in my room - empty, save for the bed and bookshelf - and sobbed. So much had happened in that room. In many ways this was where I'd been lost and then found again. My heart had been broken, my dreams had been shattered. New dreams had been born and a new love had been found. This was the space I started writing in, this tiny room with its huge window looking out on 15th street. I hate goodbyes.

So I was crying about the packing, but I wasn't crying about the packing.

And when I calmed down, The Boyfriend entered and told me he'd shoved everything into that car, and it was time to go. Somehow he fit it all in while I cried my goodbye. It was barely 9:00 in the morning. A new chapter had begun.