I always say I have more ideas than sense. And then I move on to mention that my theatre degree taught me that any decorating project can be accomplished with a Sharpie Marker and Duct Tape. The first is gospel. The second is hyperbole. What I really need is a time machine–a device that transports me into the future, to a time when the wreckage in my garage has transmogrified into elegant accessories for my humble abode.
The big picture isn’t so Byzantine. Observe the current state of my garage:
H. G. Wells isn’t going to save me. I don’t have a magic bubble–à la Stephen King–to slide past the project phase. I’m more like the librarian in Audrey Niffenegger’s Time Traveler’s Wife, naked in the woods without a clue.