I Used to Have a Clean House, But Now I Am a Writer

My house used to be very clean; I needed it that way for some reason. Now only my office is clean. Stacks of papers and folders are geometrically arranged on my desk. My pen lies just so. Webster's and Roget's are within reach but not in the way.

The rest of the house is falling apart.

I feel it takes a person of great talent and discipline to let the house get to the point I now find mine in. I could beat anyone at Jenga--one look at my laundry pile will prove that. The hamper sits against the wall. I know just how to add to it without making it tumble. I try to keep up my husband's laundry since he actually has to face people. But I don't iron. If that de-wrinkling spray doesn't do it, oh well.

At times, my house is very dusty. I once used my husband's black socks to dust; the results were quite revealing. I think a black sock test would be more effective than a white glove test. Note: Dust is mostly human skin cells and dessicated corpses of dust mites. That's gross!

Trash cans, see laundry above.

My house will never be as clean as my mother's house was, back when I was a kid and was forced to clean baseboards every Saturday. But I have two completed novels and more than a few short stories to show for my household neglect. That's a pretty good trade-off. And I'm willing to eat from paper plates if it will allow me to tweak one more chapter. There's always a household shortcut; there are no shortcuts to good writing.