rolanni | So you want to be a writer, Part Whatever

Creativity is messy -- yet another thing they don't tell you when you set yourself up to be a writer.

I don't mean messy, like messy thinking -- the kind that turns "defend your thesis" into "which knife do you choose in defense of your thesis," or being able to look at a slab of stone and see the wombat inside of it -- that's what creativity is, turning everyday things onto their heads, being able to see things invisible to the daily eye.

No, what I mean is that creativity is actually messy, in that, the act of being creative generates a mess. You'd expect this with the visual arts -- sculpture? yeah, you're gonna create all kinds of a mess. Painting? No way around it.

You wouldn't, however, think that writing would generate a mess. I mean, what do you do as a writer, besides sit in front of a computer and hit keys? Maybe a note pad and a pen, sitting discreetly by your elbow, a coffee cup that needs to be washed -- but really, the mess ought to be minimal.

I've just spent the last two hours in my office, cleaning up the aftermath of Ghost Ship. My office is as bad as I've ever seen it -- the floor covered with piles of Goddess only knows what; my desktop inches thick in paper. The top of the bookshelf next to my desk supporting several dangerously high mixed stacks of paper, CDs, books, pens, and pads. . . . .

Anyhow, I started at the rolling file, which is right by the door, and began collecting the pieces of Ghost Ship, and only the pieces of Ghost Ship. By the time I knocked off for lunch, I had a stack of various printed and handwritten pages in a neat pile and the remains of eight (eight!) yellow pads put neatly away on their shelf. I could actually see a foot or two of rug, and could walk into (and leave) the room without having to dodge piles of paper. So -- progress.

I came back from lunch and decided to push my advantage to the outside wall, so I had a consolidated base from which to move inward. I sat down on the rug and picked up the pile of paper next to the teddy bear.

A copy of the talk that I gave at the Fairfield Library, some SRM files that had been pulled for the accountant and returned, a folder with the guidelines for several anthologies I long missed the deadline for. . .

. . .and another seventy-five pages of Ghost Ship chapters, notes, random scenes -- aaarrrgh!

*deep breath*

I think I have them all now, piled up neatly in the corner made by the file cabinet and the bookshelf. The printout of the submission draft is on the newly liberated top of the bookshelf -- I'll need to read that, RSN, so we can fine-tune the proposal for the next book that Steve wrote back at the beginning of September, long before Ghost Ship was finished. The horrendous drifts of paper on my desk seem to be exclusively ignored data entry, a few bills, and some launch party business.

It's gonna take me weeks to go through all this stuff, sort it, enter it and file it. My own fault, I guess; I'm sure other writers are more pro-active with their creative mess and don't let them get out of hand.

Right?