Saturday mornings in my house mean one thing: Cleaning Day has begun. I have kids and cats, so every day is Cleaning Day to some extent, but Saturdays are for getting into the corners, behind the furniture, moving appliances, on my hands and knees, Don’t-Bother-Me-Can’t-You-See-I’m-Busy-If-You-Can’t-Find-Something-To-Do-So-Help-Me-You-Can-Get-Down-Here-With-Me, THAT kind of cleaning.
My favorite part of cleaning the house this weekend was finally clearing off my desk, which was long overdue. I had spilled coffee on it more than once, so there were papier-mâchéd post-it notes glued down by sticky splotches of dust on one side, and my son’s school photos from last year that I forgot to mail out on the other. Piled up against the wall were napkins, receipts, and torn-off corners of take-out menus where I had scribbled down half-formed writing ideas like, “A boy wakes up alone on a space ship with a broken toy,” and “The Event Planning Committee wants aliens to RSVP” (this actually turned into my short story Earth X.)
I unearthed a coffee warmer I’d forgotten about, postcards, business cards, and birthday cards, written apologies from my son for getting sassy with me, old notes I’d been searching for, and all other sorts of ephemera that you’d expect to find on a writing desk that’s also used for laundry folding, gift wrapping, crafting, coloring, etc. Cleaning it all off felt like breaking off a toxic relationship. My desk is now clean and organized, and my laptop is front-and-center, open, and waiting for me. Guess I should go write something.
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