Since moving to our new house right before Christmas, and the months-long push to get Kill Me out into the world, my mind and my dedicated office space have been suffering from a severe case of the Clutters. Tonight, after putting in a eight hours at the day job, I came home to do something about it.
I figured cleaning up my office would get my household moving in the right direction. Little did I realize it would also juice up my creative side via a trip down memory lane. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
First I want to show you my office-in-progress. It’s mostly organized and once I get all of the computer tower chords tucked away, it will be decorating time! (I have so many Pinterest ideas!) So here are the before pics and I’ll come back and post After pics at some point.
Now, about that trip down memory lane…
I organized three filing boxes into one and had to go through sooooo many files. Some of those were things I’d written up to twenty years ago. I cringed at some of my melodramatic, flowery poetry and stunted prose. It was bad. Very bad.
I also discovered that I had the bare bones, scribbled on multi-colored bits of paper and tucked in several folders, of a dozen novels that I’d completely forgotten about.
A dozen novel ideas. Some only a few paragraphs, while others had a fleshed-out synopsis, chapter outline and pages of notes. Cleaning reminded me about why I write, and just how long I’ve been at it. And it was just the kick-in-the-pants that I needed to get working on something new.
While I do that, you can enjoy (not) two of my early little ditties. Be kind, I wrote these as an impressionable teen and over-tired young mother. And I’m embarrassed enough all on my own, thank you very much!
(This was written way back yonder when I worked on greeting card scripts.)Seasons pass, and years go by We ditched a class and learned to fly Spouses appeared and children were had We’ve reminisced on the times we were Bad So many memories, we have shared And when it mattered most, I knew you cared Storms came and went, and in the end We’ve weathered it all, because we are friends.
(Then there is this… not sure what else to say about that.)When the question is posed to me- at my job, online, in a bar- Who am I? What Am I? What singular word describes the Who of Me? I speak, I type, I slur- one word, on compulsion (a habit I don’t recall forming) It falls out of my mouth like errant food. dropped on my blouse A stain to wear all through the day Like a badge, a dull cookie-crusted badge of reproductive capabilities Who Am I? What am I? I am a Mother.
(That’s all Folks!)