Space, the final frontier.....

Bang, Bang, Bang

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.....

Bzzzzzzzzzzz clink whirrrrrrrrrr

Call me Ishmael......

Weeeeiiiiii schlithunk

Aargh! I'm trying to write the next great American novel here, can't they see that? How dare my new neighbors start building their house today of all days! I mean honestly, writer's block is a serious illness. Didn't Sylvia Plath die of it or something? If they knew I was a writer finally coming off of a 3 month long block, surely they would understand my plight. Maybe I should get up right now, throw a robe on over my jammies, and give those construction workers what for.

No, no,no; I can't do that. This is a beach side community. People don't go out and yell at their neighbors around here. Besides, if I leave the condo I will just end up sunning on the beach and forget about my novel just as I did last week. Going outside is overrated. My neighbors aren't even over there now anyway. They are 'vacationers'. Unlike me, they won't be residing in their beach side abode permanently. It's just a fun get away from their high brow corporate jobs in the city, lucky them.

The only people for me to complain to about this novel ending noise are the construction workers themselves. I doubt they care. They are being paid to build a house, not create a nurturing environment in which ideas can be born. Perhaps if I told them that they were murdering my baby ideas with every hammer bang and table saw whir, they would stop. Or, perhaps, when the middle aged woman in fuzzy pink pajamas leans out of her second story window to lecture them on the death of ideas, they just laugh and continue on working. I'm leaning toward the latter as the likely way things would go.

Wait! I have a kitchen! Construction workers love free food. All I need to do is whip up some sandwiches and let the smell waft through the open window. Surely they will stop work to find the source of the food. Sweetly, I will invite them on to my patio where they will drink lemonade, eat sammies, and watch the waves lap onto the shore. Sensible and succinct, this is the plan for sure. Making sandwiches won't be to hard. I just need to find out where Marta keeps the bread and the mustard and the meat. Did Marta even buy sandwich fixings this week? Is it ok to call her on her day off?

Well, the sandwich plan is dead in the water. Marta didn't pick up. There must be something I can do about this noise. I am a grown woman, a graduate of Brown University, and I once stood up to a rude cashier at a Nieman Marcus. This is nothing compared to that! What if I take one of my Jimmy Choos and throw it out the window toward the ruckus? I'm sure that would quiet things down and get their attention. Only a woman in the utmost despair would ever think of throwing a Jimmy Choo. It makes me nauseous just thinking about.

Parting with even a single one of my Choo babies is too traumatizing of a thought to bear. There must be something in this room that can help me. My bright pink Mac is just a finger tickle away. I should write a strongly worded email to the owner of the construction company. I'm pretty sure it's the same people who built my condo two years ago. Their business card should be somewhere on my desk. Ugggh, why is there so much clutter here? I blame my past self for this inconvenience. The card is nowhere to be found. It doesn't matter anyway. It's 3:30pm on a Friday. Most businesses in this town would have shut down by 2pm. My email wouldn't get read until Monday and by then, my writing mojo would be long gone. 

What is the point? I moved here because I thought the sea would be my muse. Everything I do in this place is for the betterment of my writing. The walls are a motivational sky blue and my bed is covered in enough lace to choke a goat. If I can't write a novel here, then I can't write one anywhere. I wonder if there's enough lace on my bed to choke a large human man who's butt crack is all too visible. Whoa!  I'm getting way too murdery here. I need to calm down and think.

I can't think! Much the same way that my dreams always end in the sound of my morning alarm, my thoughts just sound like drilling. It's time to man up! If I want to get this novel written then I will have to fight for it. The time is now! Years from now, when my book is a bestseller, I will be proud of myself for doing this. The window is open. There's nothing hindering me from standing my ground.

"Shut up with the constructing! I'm trying to write." Good girl! Standing up for myself feels amazing.

"Just close your window crazy lady!" Who screamed that back at me? Whoever he is, he's right. My bedroom window is wide open. Let's just try it.

Oh, silence. This condo is very well built. The window is a perfect barrier for the sound. The house next door will undoubtedly be very sturdy. Now back to my novel.

Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of......

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