I dream of being that person working in zen-like surroundings with nary a hair out of place waiting to be photographed in all her perfection.
But that person is not me.
I write in chaos. The desk where I normally work at home is covered with books, supplies, fabric and patterns, snacks, and paper. Lots of paper.
It’s not always this bad but I’m no stranger to the chaos. I dream of a perpetually uncluttered desk. It’s a thing of beauty.
Lack of desk/workspace clutter makes me feel exposed, strangely. It frays my nerves and places a chokehold on my creative muscle. Even when I go to the coffeehouse to write, the first thing I do is scatter my papers all over the table like workspace horror vacui. Only then do I begin to feel calm. Only then does the hidden imagery in my brain emerge through the safety of the clutter.
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