I’ve whined about my computer problems for several weeks. I’m happy to say I’m typing on a sparkling new keyboard with a gigantic flatscreen in front of me. I took the old system down and put the whole new thing together in less than an hour, discovering in the process dustballs the size of a Robinson baby’s head— and Robinson babies had big heads.

The fresh computer inspired me to look at the rest of my writing/dressing room, which is a tiny third bedroom on the first floor of my house. This space is my sanctuary. There’s a twin bed I can lie down on to read or think or possibly nap if the thinking becomes tiresome. The closet is filled with my clothes. My dresser holds my wrinkled stuff. There are two tubular plastic stacking shelves that stack an odd assortment of essential things. Quite frankly, everything was a bit of a tip, as the English say.

So the other day, I sat on the floor surrounded by a pile of stuff. I found all my rejection letters. There weren’t as many as I remembered. A part of me wanted to chuck them, but instead I put them in a manila folder and hid them away in a plastic box in the closet. I collected my RWR magazines; the one with my name in it now has a sticky note. My keeper books are vertical and reach almost up to the ceiling. Envelopes and stamps and address labels are actually together and within reach. The plan is to celebrate Memorial Day by dragging the dead things out of my closet and cleaning that too.

Will this new-found organization help my writing? Probably not. But for a short while, I’m going to enjoy it. It can’t last.*g*

What’s your writing/reading space like? Do you keep everything you read? Did you spring clean?
Don’t cook. Don’t clean. No man will ever make love to a woman because she waxed the linoleum – “My God, the floor’s immaculate. Lie down, you hot bitch.” ~Joan Rivers