From today and two weeks onwards I will be house-sitting - well actually this time it is appartment-sitting which included looking after two indoor cats. I do this once in a while for family and friends, doesn't pay me anything but I will have some time away from my own little appartment and the noisy next door neighbour, and I still have to go to work every day.
Just after Christmas, I bought a book on sale "Twelve Days of Christmas" by Trisha Ashley, thought I would save it for holiday read later this year. However, when I grapped some books to keep me company on my latest travel, I had grapped this without knowing - and once I started reading it, I could not put it down until I reached the last page. The main character, Holly Brown, was housesitting - only difference between her and me: she gets paid to do it.
Half a year ago, I started a draft on a novel, where the main character would be a house sitter, who earned her living doing that + crafts. After having read Trisha's book, I stopped writing it, as she had already written was I had imagined for my own little novel. Discarting my own idea does not make me sad, as I could not have done it better than Trisha - in fact: I would not even have come close to her writings.
Maybe my comfort in travelling and housesitting actually come from a sense of being without roots? That I have not yet been able to settle down and said: "This is what I want!" I like my job, and yet I have this feeling that the job is not truely, who I am.
Where thou art, that is home.
Emily Dickinson
