My office got turned upside down the other day due to some home upgrades requiring work I won't even pretend to know how to do. To be honest, the office was a disguised mess anyway. Sure, it looked organized, but that's only because I'm like a ninja of burying traces of disorder. But with everything jumbled into the center of the room, it seemed like a good time to do a real deal sweep.
What did I find?
Scraps of paper.
This is my life - tiny little pieces of imagination in piles. Scraps scribbled with phrases that make no sense to anyone but myself. Fragments from dreams (which often mean nothing to me once they've past expiration and I can no longer even remember the dream.) One word ideas. Character traits. A line of conversation. In rare moments, and entire book concept.
I jot these things down on post-its, notepads, inside those classy mole skin journals or large format sketch books, and yes, even the back of receipts from Target provided there is nothing tax deductible included on the purchase. Then I place them in my office, telling myself that I'll get that later. Check your clocks because "later" struck this week.
What I discovered is that I have 30 books that I need to write. These are in various stages of being thought out. This is great considering I'm finishing up three separate projects that have consumed most of my time over the past year or more. Most of the bits usually end up getting cannibalized by whatever project comes next. I'm not a big fan of saving things for later. If an idea can fit, use it. Ideas are free and there will always be more.
I guess there can be something positive to come out of cleaning.