Okay, prepare yourselves for somebody whining about how tough it is to live with a luxury . . . .
As I type this, I'm sitting at my basement desk, bare feet on a concrete floor, surrounded by a banker's boxes, a shop vac, little figures of Gaiman's Endless, a lantern in case the power goes out, an old Weight Watchers case, and a thousand other random items that basically make it look like a junk shop or crazy old coot's storeroom, which it has kind of become.
Two floors above me is one of those things every Sherlockian wants to eventually have at least one of: the Sherlock Room. A library that's totally devoted to Sherlock Holmes (well, at least 80%, in this case.) Once one settles into their own place, doesn't have to deal with the raising of children, and values Sherlock over overnight guests, it's not that hard to put together. And put together. And put together. It can evolve over years or decades.
One envisions creating such a room, then lounging in its comforts, soaking in all the Sherlockian essence that now surrounds you. What happened in my case?
A room I walk into, grab the book I want, and walk out of again.
If somebody's coming to visit, I'll clean it up enough to let them take a tour without stepping on anything, but in day-to-day life? I'm down here in the basement listening to the dehumidifier run while I blog about the guy I devoted that whole room to, two floors up.
What's wrong with this picture?
I've planned campaigns to retake the room, to clear its wild literary overgrowth, and settle in there once and for all. Oh, yes. But the room gathers up its overwhelming contents of nostalgia and sideroad Sherlocking routes and steals my gathered force like a field of poppies on the way into the Emerald City. And eventually I retreat to my basement stronghold, to work on something that's a little more accomplishable . . . like a blog post.
I could claim I'm not lazy in avoiding that larger chore, but that would be a bit like being an invitation-only group that claims it has no elitism . . . the tinge of what I'd be denying is hard to shake.
My Sherlock room has, ironically, become like 221B Baker Street even though it's not an attempt to replicate that famous address. It is a place I imagine that I'd love to spend time in, yet I just can't seem to. Or maybe it's my Afghanistan, which I inevitably leave, a bit wounded and looking for company whenever I attempt to retake it. If it seems like I'm just rolling through metaphors like mad, it's probably because I'm searching for the one that inspires me to go up, face the room and do what needs to be done.
And having made that statement . . . off I go. . . .