Good Bones
We bought a house! It’s official. Mark and I are Toronto East-enders for the foreseeable future.
On Thursday we got the keys and ran around our space. For the first time, we were unsupervised by real estate agents. For the last time, the house was untouched.
Yesterday we gave those same keys to our contractor. He’s currently ripping apart the roof and walls of our 101-year-old home. It’s undergoing surgery with unknown discoveries and corresponding price tags.
We're banking on the fact that it has “good bones.”
We fell in love with this house’s charm and family-oriented location. Built in 1922, it has a fireplace, a milkbox (!!!), and french doors in the dining room. You see the water from the front yard. And yes, there is a perfect place to put the Christmas tree.
With all the benefits of an old home come challenges - old wiring, cast-iron plumbing, and plaster ceilings. While I’m romanticizing the aesthetic, my bank account is sizing up the cost.
For our first night with the space, we ate on the dining room floor and played our wedding song. We ordered from a local pizza place and I accepted the delivery on the front porch as if I had lived there for years.
As we toured around, the scope of the work began to set in. This wall here, this paint there. A new couch, a new bed, a new life. The overwhelm of a new project crept into the excitement.
How, exactly, are we going to do this?
Looking at the contractor’s quote
The feeling is familiar. Recently I’ve started reading the first draft of my novel, and there are moments the sheer amount of edits makes me want to tear it up. I’m switching from first person to third, need to add a new storyline, and the dialogue is choppy. All in all, it’s a standard shitty first draft.
When I work on the pages, however, all I see are the mistakes. I know this project will consume the next year of my life, and the thought is all-consuming.
I want to believe that my story also has good bones. But, as a first-time novel writer (and renovator), I’m not sure I can stake that claim.
The undertaking has left the bones in my hands clenched and my teeth grinding. Maybe this is more than I’m capable of.
Me after reading the first chapter of my draft
There’s a common saying that life requires three things: a wishbone, a backbone, and a funny bone.
While true, a goal, perseverance and a sense of humour don't account for action. A skeleton is only as good as the muscles that surround it. Without movement, bones turn into dust.
The scaffolding of our home and my book are there, but it’s a much larger task to construct flesh. Every day I have to keep myself motivated to take another step and read another chapter. I’m using every ounce of my energy to mould tendons and skin around my aspirations. It feels like playing god. Or, perhaps more accurately, Dr. Frankenstein.
What keeps me moving forward is the vision. I’m packing flesh on bones to create a heart underneath it. Passion is beating through-line that reminds me why we wanted a family in this house and what about this story is worth telling - no matter what we find in the walls. Today, I’m wiring veins in hollow spaces in the hopes that eventually, they will flow and love on their own.
From good bones, I am creating life.
The mad scientist in me wants to hyper-focus. I don’t want to see friends, go to work, or continue this blog until I’ve solved every unknown. I’m obsessed with my creations, and I want to scream in the face of every minor obligation, don’t you understand that I have more important things to do? Don’t you get what I’m building?
It’s easy to forget the number of people doing their own renovations, writing their own stories, and creating real human lives. This is something other people do every day.
Trying to get out of bed in the morning
It’s humbling to be a complete beginner. I’m embarking on a new chapter (literally and metaphorically) that I’ve never encountered before. I’m doing my best to stay calm.
In the back corner of the house is my future writing space. It’s bright and quirky with off-centre windows and a broken closet door. I absolutely love it.
While Mark and I stood in the empty room on Thursday night, I felt grounded. This is the laboratory where I can overanalyze every word of my book and every cent of our budget. And, it has a door to stop my obsession from bleeding into the rest of our lives.
I found the creative artery of our space. This is the main pump that will tether me to the heart of what I’m doing - creating a home with my husband, and sharing a story I care about.
