Creativity Can Be Messy

My New Year cleaning binge came to an end soon after it started. Five days of purging papers and old shoe boxes and dried up pens and pencils with no erasers has left no discernible mark on my surroundings. Things are as messy, if not messier, than they were before. The stack of folders with multiple copies of submitted MFA applications and fellowship hopes and yearnings still sits on the floor beside my bed. I'm sure I could reduce that six-inch stack to a couple of thin manila files that I could slip into the file cabinet.

I've often thought about writing fiction instead of non-fiction. I think it's a much more lucrative proposition, if one is in it for the lucre. The only time I really think about having a financially fulfilling career is in those times I start contemplating my messiness, and my fancy takes over, tells me life would be so much easier with a personal assistant.

I had a "what would you do if you hit the lottery" discussion with a friend not long ago. She had what sounded like a well thought-out list of all the vacations she'd take, the palace she'd buy, the sports car she'd drive. Me? I wouldn't move. I like our house and its location. I can take a vacation anytime I want. In the summer, I do so every morning when I pour my coffee and walk out onto the porch. I'd probably buy a lot more books, maybe even try to find a first edition Walden. I think we'd probably like to have another truck, since last summer I saw what hauling potting soil did to the carpet in the back of the van. Clothes? I have enough clothes. But if I'm flipping channels on the t.v. and hit on one of those organizing shows where a team comes in and completely reorganizes your house -- that, yes, definitely that, would be something I'd spend money on.

I'm already fortunate to have a part-time housekeeper, but she does heavy cleaning. She wouldn't know where to start with the messes I make. I would love to interview folks who are like-minded, find the perfect person who would set up the perfect filing system, clear out all my cob-web clutter and make those hard decisions, find the perfect places for all my muse-pleasing artifacts (like my broken monkey who's cymbals no longer crash together, who's lips no longer peel back to reveal creepy monkey teeth -- why my dad thought that nightmare-inducing toy was appropriate for a little girl who needed nothing extra to induce nightmares, I don't know) ... I've dreamed of her (or his) services long before I needed them so desperately. Full-time. Not just a breeze through and go.

I want to create, but I don't want to tie up the loose ends. I hate to edit, and I hate to organize. I like to cook, but I hate to do dishes. I love to garden, but drag my tools back to the shed? Maybe that's why I like Monk so much. I'd take all his idiosyncrasies if they came equipped with a personal assistant.

Till later...