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

Or this:

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.