Believe it or not:
This is what I looked like after I cleaned it.
A friend of mine suggested I take a break from writing for a few days. Fine, I thought. I’ve been writing and editing at a breakneck speed; maybe a little time away would be a good thing. The long weekend was ahead of me, and in getting ready for book fest next weekend, I realized my office closet really needed cleaning out and reorganizing. Everything was thrown on the floor, I couldn’t get to the back shelves, and well, you know what I mean, everything was everywhere.
Well, that took me all of two hours. Now what? I decided to catch up on some research for a new book I’m working on about female pirates. Great, another four hours down. What’s next? The mind is an interesting muscle, or maybe it’s the spirit, but the one thing I’d been told not to do was calling to me like a vice. Boredom set it, and I answered temptation’s call. But this was not really writing, I argued to myself; it’s more of a challenge. A writer should be able to make the most mundane tasks seem like an adventure. If I could write a compelling story about cleaning my office closet, it would be more of a writing exercise, right? So, I sat down with pen, notebook, and paper and wrote my favorite questions across the top of the page: Who. What. Why. Where and how.
Who: In my office closet, my two work worlds, travel and writing, have collided with anything but harmonious cohesion. Just opening the door causes endless angst. I have to get a handle on it and take control; it will clear my mind, settle my soul, and make it easier to go back to writing. One less thing to worry about, right?
What: First of all, I need to find out what’s in my closet. What treasures have I buried in there that I need to dig up? Did you get the pirate metaphor? I’m telling you, I can’t get away from a story once it’s captured my imagination. Crap! Another pirate analogy. Focus. The closet.
Why: I can’t walk into the closet. A gift basket that I’ve been holding on to for just the right book event has been on the floor for over a year, and it contains fragile items, which means it’s only a matter of time before I trample on it. A new box of paper that was too heavy to lift has to be emptied and put away, preferably where I can access it easily, and then there are the endless bags. My husband calls me the bag lady, because I can’t pass a bag, paper, plastic, cloth, woven, sewn, it doesn’t matter, I want it, and they are also strewn all over the floor. Why? Because the bottom shelf holds all my bag booty, damn, another pirate metaphor. That shelf is full to overflowing with bags.
Where: I start by removing everything from the floor and putting it on my desk, office chair, and floor in my office. Then I remove everything from the third and fourth shelves. Now I can’t move around my office. I shake my head in frustration, but I’m not giving up. A pirate wouldn’t quit, I argue with myself, but they would swear a lot, so with a curse, I decide to empty the heavy box first.
How: I put on some Irish music, and I find the rhythm sets a good pace. The Bell of Dunharrow fills the room as I start unpacking reams of paper. Great, that frees up the box to stack all the travel document holders that, for some reason, I find nearly fifty of them stuck in the back of the shelf. Those take up half the box. Next to them, I find a stack of notebooks from a resort I can’t for the life of me remember why a resort would need to give away notebooks. I should throw them out, crosses my mind. But then I think, if I ever host a writing retreat, they will come in handy. Sure, I may host a writing retreat someday, it’s possible. I throw them into the box as Fiddler’s Bones starts its mournful notes. Fitting, I think, my back is killing me.
That box fits comfortably in the corner of the shelf, smashed as close to the wall as I can get it. Now there’s space for the empty gift basket box I refuse to throw away, since I may need it for another book event I won’t go to. Now that the shelf is full, on to the one below. Finally, I find a spot for the large gift basket I’ve been holding on to forever, and my coup de gras, the fragile items will be safe. Next to that, I stuff a basket that again, I may need at a future date. Don’t laugh, I may go to another book event one of these days, and I’m a gifter, so stop laughing.
Now, to the bags: “The Song They Say Will End the Night” wafts into the closet. How appropriate, crosses my mind. I grab some tacks and stick them into the wall. That takes care of the smaller bags. That basket you scoffed at? I stuff it with cloth bags and shove it back into its space. The rest of the bags from the floor, I cram into other bags, then, putting my back into it, I wrestle them onto the shelf. Hey, it’s not pretty, but they’re off the floor, and I’ve battened down the hatches. No. Yep, I heard it that time.
All that’s left are my two travel backpacks. I look helplessly at the overflowing bag shelf and think to myself, there is no way in hell. If I shove them in there, they’ll be lost to Davy Jones Locker, and I’m traveling to New York in a couple of weeks. So, I make a decision and drop them on the floor because dead men tell no tales, and it’s time to cut and run.
Here's the thing about being a writer: the instinct doesn't switch off. You're never just doing a mundane task; you're observing, framing, finding the thread. My closet became a character study. The bags became a punchline. The pirate metaphors wrote themselves.
📚 Redemption Songs 📚 Friendship Estate 📚 I Am Cuba
You can find the links at www.lyndaredwards.com.
