I don’t know if this is because today is the last day of summer. I don’t know if it’s because of Yom Kippur (I am not Jewish, but I respect the tradition) I don’t know if it’s because I need to seriously wrap up some of Housemate’s things, or whatever the case may be, but I have too much stuff. It’s five pm now, and that means I have permission to knock off from running in circles and smashing my head into the wall trying to be SuperAnna, clearing out Housemate’s stuff on my own, visually impaired, and undermedicated, with transportation issues. Add in my close call with some online selling fraud (shout out to Bank of America for having none of that, thank you very much) and I am spent. Pardon the pun.

Going into month two after Housemate’s death, and getting closer to year one after Real Life Romance Hero’s, one can imagine things get complicated. No matter what the reason was, when I got up this morning, my entire being went into Enough mode. I am over the clutter. I am, no disrespect intended, over cleaning up dead people’s messes. I want things sorted, literally and figuratively and I want to get on with my life. Writing is a huge part of that. Maybe the biggest. Right now, I am preheating the oven to find out if I have correctly interpreted the right way to bake Italian sausage patties, because I actually kind of like cooking for myself, and tonight, I feel like a strange combination of sausage from the latest grocery run, cheese from the plate my kind neighbor made me after the end of summer neighbor dinner a bunch of us had in their backyard on Saturday evening, and then we’ll see what else I want. Maybe stick the whole thing on toast and call it a night. I do have fresh-ish pasta and some Alfredo sauce, but that’s what tomorrow is for, possibly.

Right now, I am putting some sort of order into the writing area of my room. Still odd to say my room and not “our” room, but since I share it with Storm, maybe “our” is still appropriate. I have yet to entirely figure out the laundry situation, but the call of my favorite buffalo plaid sheets is strong, and it is a very pleasant stroll to the laundromat, with laundry not in a basket but in a rolling suitcase. I will probably acquire a cart at some point. I do have a birthday next month.

One of the things I am doing is getting my writing project notebooks together, one book per project, and making the bookshelf next to my desk Writing Central. Melva, my contemporary co-writer is currently out of the country for a very happy trip, and when she gets back, we are in the final stretches of bringing Queen of Hearts to all of you. Finding stock art with both leads blond/e is a lot more difficult than we expected, but we are not changing anybody. They look the way they look and that’s that. Once that book is out, time to launch A Heart Most Errant, (finally!) and then I am in the happy position of Next Books. We need to decide on our next contemporary romance. My next historical will of course be A Heart Most Ardent, and I am hard at work on Her Last First Kiss, meaning I will be inhabiting the medieval and Georgian ages at the same time. Melva’s current solo project, I will let her divulge, but I fell hard in love with that book while she wrote it in writing sprints in a group we both attended and am delighted that it will come to fruition in the coming year.

There is also the pure therapy of returning to a college love, standup comedy. Right now, I am keeping an eye out for open mics, working on my first set in decades (ouch) and honestly loving it. I am trying some stuff out on TikTok at @anna_log_writes. I fully embrace my belly flop era and carry over the lesson from improv class that we celebrate failure. I am not sure what else I want to put here, which again, is a lesson from improv. When I don’t know what to put here, I start with that and go for the next most obvious thing.

For me, at 6:36 PM on the last night of summer, that means I want dead people stuff gone. Yes, making money off it is ideal. At the same time, my peace of mind is priceless. I cannot afford the worry and emotional baggage, so I will be looking into offloading some of the liquidation. Estate sellers, take the stuff, take your cut, donate what doesn’t sell, cut me a check and we’re done. I need to focus on my life now. That will include remote work, preferably freelance writing or adjacent, but I am open to other things as well. A roommate will help feed my extrovert need for socialization and halve the bills, and make one heck of a more comfortable situation for me in which to create. I want clear floor, clean surfaces, and absolutely zero piles.

Furniture I’ve carted through moves, or more realistically waved at in storage and thought “someday,” I am now less attached to, and very happy to turn into cash or pass along to somebody who doesn’t have any. I am ready for space and peace and long autumn evenings with my cat and my stories. I want to make myself dinner, a meal that I want, wash my dishes right away, put them away and tuck in for an evening around the metaphorical fire. Maybe find an online tabletop roleplaying group. I’ve wanted to try that for a while. Now, I can.

First, though, I need to make space. Selling on FB Marketplace is an education. As is finding out that Housemate’s gift of HP Instant Ink shipments ran out exactly when I need to print prepaid mailing labels, so huzzah for the public library. Only not today, because Yom Kippur. That is a very appropriate day to reflect on things past and how I would like the future to go. There are surprises.

One of my newly met neighbors asked if I might like to turn Housemate’s old room into an office or studio. I like that idea, but I like the roommate idea more, and my current room is big enough to serve multiple purposes. I do need to bring Storm’s cat tree into our room, since she’s not that interested in hanging out in a room with no humans in it. She’d rather be with me. Maintenance Dude, who is my across the hall neighbor, suggested introducing Storm to his two Chihuahua mixes, through baby gates, in our respective apartments. As in them in their apartment, Storm in ours, maybe even in her adventure cave, gates up, so they can see and smell each other but not make contact. We will see.

For now, I have an Italian sausage patty to investigate. This will either be delicious or proof that while I was raised by Italians, we share no genetic material. Maybe I will try an Irish sausage next time.

Apparently, I am indestructible.