I’ve cleaned off my desk. Should have taken a before/after duo to show you what a mess it was–but I didn’t think of it.
Motivation for this sort of purge comes slowly, but finishing a major project helps. When we decided to entertain a group in a couple of weeks, my lazy “cleaning genes” ground into motion.
Once I start, satisfaction sets in with each handful of paper debris dashed into the recycling bin. But at first, the going is tough. You see, my writing process includes volumes of little notes I write to myself. The history behind the story must be clear, and that history, I jot down in a ridiculous amount of notes that end up on my desk.
Why not put it all in one notebook instead of using whatever scrap, envelope, napkin, etc happens to be handy when I make the discovery? I ask myself this, too, as yet another handful of notes meets its demise. The answer? I really don’t know. I’ve tried notebooks, and for some reason, always end up using whatever paper I can find instead. Perhaps it’s the image of Abraham Lincoln penning his Gettysburg Address…
A similar phase takes place in my mind during the weeks after completing a book. Now that Land That I Love has a cover (I just have to share it again!)
and a final edit, this is starting to occur. I’ve concentrated so intensely, it seems odd to be walking about like a normal person, and as I do, I notice how other things have piled up. In the past few days, I’ve cleaned out two closets–so unlike me.
We’re all unique–like this carrot that looks like two. But they wound around each other and were harvested and marketed as one.
Strange. Peculiar. Odd. Fascinating. Intriguing. Just the type of notes I write to myself–in my own simple way. But the growth and the goal are all that really matter.
I love the way the background and foreground integrate. Reminds me of how the main characters and secondary characters in a novel complement each other.
