I don't drink. I don't do drugs, even drugs I don't think are harmful like the good old Mary Jane. I don't like to party, I don't sky dive, I don't drive too fast for my own good. My life is pretty boring; I definitely don't subscribe to the Hemingway school of writing.
That's not to say I don't have flaws. One of my biggest is that I'm a mess. As in, I make them constantly. Even if I go down to the local coffee shop to write, I have to bring my laptop, some notebooks, a couple books to read, whatever projects I'm working on (as in writing and research) and will probably include knitting projects or other crafting projects. Soon, I'm taking over an entire couch with the debris of my life. (This may be why my attempts at flirting at the coffee shop with cute musicians have failed. Or maybe it's my persistent social awkwardness.)
Anywho, when it comes to my messiness, I am somewhat dumbfounded. I don't know how to get my act together when it comes to cleaning and organizing my personal space (even though I'm very good at cleaning and organizing work spaces) and was just reminded by this fact when I rifled through an old rubber bin filled with the remains of when I last cleaned my car sometime before October.
Inside, I found a fondue pot, the corset I had custom made as a graduation gift to myself, a workbook I bought to help me get through NaNoWriMo this year, a bunch of socks, quite a bit of clothes, colorful yarn hair extensions, and much, much more. Some of the things I found I've been trying to find for months, always overlooking the bin as I tore my apartment apart.
Is this a normal part of the unhinged qualities of being a writer? Am I messy because I'm a writer? Am I a writer because my mind is somewhat messy? Do other reader/writers out there have the same problem? Or, is it just because I'm your average American undomesticated young woman who is one intervention away from being the absent-minded professor?
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