The writing room (which is also my bedroom) is unbearably messy and yet I fear moving a single piece of paper from position A to position B –because I have made a mind map of the location of each fragment and if I move it –well there goes my GPS system.
What this means is that there is a circle of books around my chair like a caravan of cowboys fending off the dustbunnies that are around them. In fact, dust bunnies are everywhere, the plastic bin is full of laundry from yesterday, the odd pieces of paper next to my floppy lamp is close to igniting from the heat of the light bulb, ten thousand binders and journals stagger around everywhere. The books I have been collecting for imprinting on my brain are in boxes of their own specific identity—science fiction on the left—nature books on the right and a miscellaneous box of books on the side. Of course there are library books everywhere and the table top resembles a jumble sale that has gone on for too long.
I tell myself that all poets are this messy.
I think this isn’t really true because I remember seeing a book of the houses of poets and they were immaculate. They were also published. It may be that being a tidy person and an organized worker makes you more publishable. It may also be that I am just too damn lazy to do more than blog publication because face it—if you aren’t going to starve to death—why bother publishing poems? No one wants to read your fluff –especially other poets who are delicious and have better fluff than you have.
So it doesn’t matter if my writing room looks as if it needs to be put in a dumpster.
It doesn’t matter that ten thousand journals sit in the basement ---that books crawl out of every room—that dust bunnies are my only company.
It is the way it is meant to be until I have more time to do the housework.
Face it. If you are given a choice between being a house worker or a house writer—the choice is obvious isn’t it?
I’d rather write.