While I have a lot of respect for Virginia Woolf, I’ve written a lot of books without an office or any single room I could call my own. But it hasn’t been ideal, and the golden dream of a real office has glimmered in the distance lit with a celestial glow and accompanied by a chorus of angels.

Well, the office will now be mine. Mine and my husband’s, a co-office, but all this time (5 years) we’ve had desks in bedrooms, in dining rooms, in kitchens and living rooms. Having a room of our own for desks and the printer and office supplies and files is heady stuff!

You’ve noticed the stunning lack of entertaining blog entries, I’m sure, but that couldn’t be helped while we were dealing with house and moving stuff. And we will continue to be busy with that stuff for the next week. After which I will have AN OFFICE! With french doors! Which I can close!

Meanwhile the book doesn’t magically write itself and the small children need tending, and so I am neglecting the blog. Sorry. But here’s a moving poem for Poetry Monday:

Can you pack it in a box? Can you haul it with an ox?
I would not, could not, move that thing, can we donate most everything?