Sunday morning, February 17, 2013
I took a week off to organize my writing room, and it is now Sunday morning.
Panic set in when I realized I've merely stirred things from one part of the room to another. There's only one more day to dance this mess around. Ackkk.
In desperation, I took pictures of the state of the tiny room I share with the Murphy bed for any unsuspecting guests who happen to wander through our Colorado condo.
Once I bottomed out, and admitted there's nothing I can do about the state of my mind (reflected in the firecracker factory mode of my office), I came to an epiphany: My office represents what a writer's brain would look like if cracked opened on an autopsy table.
(Have no idea what the heck is in the above pile - oh, yeah - the brown paper on top is a cool chocolate bar wrapper I'm going to use in the collage for the novel I just started)
Or like this:
this is where I stare at the screen until blood trickles from my forehead
This is the work I'm editing
And here's the one I'm trying to organize enough to start the mad dash to finish the some 65K words to go:
Soooo, come Tuesday morning, this *will* be organized, because I learned how to do everything at the very last minute in the best training ground in the world - the newsrooms of numerous newspapers populated by people just as crazed as I am.
Panic attack over. Back to work.