On selling a house: An allegory

When you move into a new place, things are exciting. Your house is brand new to you, and you work hard to fill it up with all the things that are you -- every single thing seems very important. It fits. It shines.

But over time, the junk piles creep in. Dust gathers on the tops of shelves and in the corners of window frames. And you think, "I'll take care of that eventually--no rush right this minute. I have time."

Then, suddenly, you are done with the house, for whatever reason. Now you are ready to SELL THAT HOUSE.

BUT WAIT...

My loft, before our house was listed recently.
In the "it might get worse before it gets better" stage.

Suddenly you realize that all the things that seemed lovely and personal -- or maybe just temporarily taking up space -- have to go if they aren't making your product -- your house -- shine to its fullest potential. You want it to be inviting. You want people to walk through the front door and never want to leave. You want them to feel like it's THEIR house, their place to sit and be comfortable, to experience their ups and downs, celebrations and sad times, too. You want them to pull out their checkbooks, write a check for earnest money and make an offer.

If you have junk falling off the shelves, that is not likely to happen. If there is outdated paint or carpet, dust, or worse yet, mold in the shower, they will likely walk in, quickly glance around, and say, "Nope. This house is not for me." If you're lucky, they won't plug their noses and hide their eyes and run out, then proceed to tell everyone else how horrid your house was because you had the silly idea to put it on the market without cleaning up your mess and making it lovely and compelling and ... SELLABLE.

My loft, now, as we wait for the perfect buyer to come along!

So you do what it takes to make it right before you ever invite anyone to take a look. It might take a little longer than you anticipated to get to that point. Maybe a lot longer. (Wow, there was more junk in that closet than you ever imagined possible. And the dust was, in certain cases, DIRT.) Sometimes, it might even seem to get worse before it gets better.

But in the end, it's worth all the hard work and elbow grease, and maybe even a little financial investment. Because when you finally put it on offer, you can relax a bit, knowing you did the very best you could -- even if it's not perfect, because nothing really ever is -- and that if it moves slowly, it wasn't because of anything you neglected to do.

Then you cross your fingers and hope and pray it sells. You did your part.

Yep. That's what it's like to sell a house. And maybe some other things.

Following Leaves

by Joan

My first manuscript was originally called Following Leaves. The title was meant to be a metaphor for the way we choose different paths, as though following leaves floating in various directions. (I mentioned it was my first, right?!) That manuscript morphed into The Cemetery Garden, but an underlying theme of the story remained: the consequences arising from choices made throughout one’s life. Here’s an excerpt (unedited since the original):

I looked out the window at a pile of leaves stirred up by a gust of wind. Each leaf floated through the air, separate and beautiful. One leaf, brilliant burgundy with orange markings, shaped like teardrops, fastened to the window and stuck there. Then it seemed to leap off the glass and blow away. I wanted to chase the leaf, follow its path to a new place, and forget about diaries and pain and death.

Oh, I was so proud of those lines. Luckily I’ve grown as a writer (and benefited from lots and lots of critique! As Kim says, “You’ve come a long way!”)

Five years ago I followed a path to Texas, after having lived only in Maryland. One of the many things I took for granted about the east coast was the autumn landscape. Broad brushstrokes of color over rolling hills, trees that reached the sky, and the smell of wood smoke and apples. Though the season is short in Texas, I’ve found a bit of autumn here.

At the retreat a few weeks ago, I collected leaves on a morning walk to the pier. Once home, I put my treasures in the annual retreat frame Susan gave each of us. Only after they were behind glass did I notice there were six, a distinct and colorful reminder of each of us, plus one, small and heart-shaped, as prized as a four-leaf clover (top right corner!).

Lately I’ve felt as though my leaves are scattered in all directions. In a few short weeks it’ll be winter and soon those leaves will float to the ground or settle under ice, and the trees will prepare for new blooms.

Today my husband and I took a long walk to enjoy the glorious sun and sky and high-sixties temps. The ground was covered in jewels. One here, one there, soon my hands held so many, I enlisted my husband to carry some. When I got home, I slowly twirled them in my fingers, noticing the fine, crackly lines and their fragility. One squeeze of my fist and they would be crunched to brittle pieces. I arranged them in a bowl, so I can hold autumn on my desk a little longer.