In the grey days of January here on the west coast of Canada, I find my myself tempted to hibernate. Then I look at the energy and activity of authors like Cathy Ace who bounce from one event to another, researching and writing clever books, promoting as she goes, encouraging new writers and contributing to her professional associations and I urge myself to more production. I do take my time writing a book. And I do have quite a bit on the go: Hazards in Hampshire is getting good reviews, my local cheerleading squad is encouraging. Sara Rosett gave Hazards in Hampshire a positive blurb. “Cozy fans will delight in the many references to popular fictional sleuths that are woven into the story, and they’ll also enjoy a peek into the life of ex-pat Claire as she settles into the English village.” —Sara Rosett, USA Today bestselling author of the Murder on Location series. Crime in Cornwall is getting ready for the printers, and Perils in Yorkshire needs one more reader before it is ready for editing. I am plotting the fourth book of this series,tentatively titled Confusion in the Cotswolds. I’m planning a trip to the Cotswolds in late April and then on to Kent, both trips related to future books. But this blog is not about writing, it’s about closets.

I have lived in my present house near the ocean for fifteen years. My closets contain fifteen years of accumulated bits and pieces. If I got hit by a bus, my children would curse me as they sorted through those closets. It’s time for a purge.

I planned the attack on the closets with one achievable goal per day, one room at a time. It’s unbelievable what I’ve stored. Items I haven’t seen in years: my mothers (probably her mother’s) doilies. For those who don’t know what a doily is, it’s (usually) a crocheted small lace mat that used to be placed under plates or cups. Of no use to me whatsoever. My mother used to starch them another bygone activity. There is also a twelve-foot-long tablecloth with a cut lace pattern which saw use once at my son’s wedding reception eons ago. There are tubs of pictures I never sorted. Balls of wool I never used. Jackets that I haven’t worn in twenty years and a tiny, full-length, formal, black lace, designer gown that I wore to attend dinner with Queen Elizabeth (along with 2500 other people). Now, that has memories connected to it! Much of what is stashed in my closets doesn’t hold memories; it’s simply junk. Some of it even the Salvation Army won’t accept.

I must complete this de-cluttering by the summer when my three youngest grandchildren are coming to stay. Unless I plan to put them in the closet, I’ll need to clean out the house so they have someplace to sleep and store their clothes and sports equipment. My current method is to create three piles: one to the dump, one to Salvation Army and one to the basement storage. I can see that I’m going to have a problem by summertime with a full and cluttered basement.

Crime in Cornwall is getting ready for the printers, and Perils in Yorkshire needs one more reader before it is ready for editing. I am planning the fourth tentatively titled Confusion in the Cotswolds. I am planning a trip to the Cotswolds in late April and then on to Kent, both trips related to future books. But this blog is not about writing, it’s about closets.

I have lived in my present house near the ocean for fifteen years. My closets contain fifteen years of accumulated bits and pieces. If I got hit by a bus, my children would curse me as they sorted through those closets. It’s time for a purge.

I planned the attack on the closets with one achievable goal per day, one room at a time. It’s unbelievable what I’ve stored. Items I haven’t seen in years: my mothers (probably her mother’s) doilies. For those who don’t know what a doily is, it’s (usually) a crocheted small lace mat that used to be placed under plates or cups. Of no use to me whatsoever. There is also a twelve-foot-long tablecloth with a cut lace pattern which saw use once at my son’s got wedding reception eons ago. There are tubs of pictures I never sorted. Balls of wool I never used. Jackets that I haven’t worn in twenty years and a tiny, full-length, formal, black lace, designer gown that I wore to attend dinner with Queen Elizabeth (along with 2500 other people). Now, that has memories connected to it. Much of what is stashed in my closets doesn’t hold memories; it’s simply junk. Some of it even the Salvation Army will not accept. I must complete this de-cluttering by the summer when my three youngest grandchildren are coming to stay. Unless I plan to put them in the closet, I’ll need to clean out the house so they have someplace to sleep and store their clothes and sports equipment.

My current method is to create three piles: one to the dump, one to Salvation Army and one to the basement storage. I can see that I’m going to have a problem by summertime with a full and cluttered basement.