Tick. . . . tick. . . . tick. . . .

So we haven’t signed contracts on our house yet. Not for lack of trying, believe me.

It generally takes 1-2 weeks for real estate agents, lawyers, buyers, sellers, and banks to all formalise the “yes” that they said at the beginning. Or before the beginning.

CJ and I aren’t that badly off. We’ll sign the contract on Tuesday, and then it’ll do a quick circuit of the aether before everyone else can sign and we’re safe (from gazumping at least).

Rationally, it’s unlikely we’ll get gazumped at this stage. It would have happened by now. But if thirteen years of novel writing has taught me anything, it’s that when you work really, really hard towards a goal for several years, and then put everything you have into making it happen, the result will be a wait that turns out to be much longer than it should be – followed by disappointment. Then more work, more waiting, and more disappointment.

This is the same oft-repeated scenario that threw me into a wild pathological panic the instant CJ and I began trying to make Louisette (which, for the record, happened much faster than the average, which is 6-12 months). After thirteen years of (mostly) meaningless toil and rejection, I have a problem with waiting. I may or may not get over it sometime. In the meantime, I attempt to at least BEHAVE rationally – which in this case means not changing my mind at the last minute and spending four years of savings on a super nice boat instead of a house (a boat made of imported chocolate and gold, presumably).

So that’s where we are at the moment. Everything will most likely be fine and dandy in a few days, but right now I’m so panicky I can barely dress myself.

I’d put a picture of our new house here, but with google image search you could then find out our address. . . . so that won’t be happening until I can take photos myself.

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