Clutter

When I walk into someone's house, I'm always surprised by how tidy they are. Just the right amount of books on each shelf; spaces between with little statuettes, one book leaning against another as though it had just been read. No dust anywhere.
     Kitchens are so neat and clean, no half-filled glass on the counter, no piece of toast surrounded by dark crumbs. No jelly sitting out, no milk ring on the tiles.
     There are no closed doors. You can glance into any room and they're all spotless. Closed doors hide clutter. I know, because I always have at least one. Behind each closed door there's a room dangerously crowded with cardboard boxes, overfilled with paper, with half-read books, lists (always lists), songs we haven't learned yet, and even those we have. We only throw paper away when lighting a fire.
     I'm the kind of writer who needs a paper copy of each draft of my novel, and I edit every time I read. So there are mountains of manuscripts; all that paper, all that ink. Years of rewrites and false starts. I have no idea which is the newest because after I read it I put it with the others. Careless, but I doubt I'll change.
     There are guitars in every room. There are drums and mandolins and even a banjo, though the strings rusted and broke years ago. Someday, I think....someday I'll buy new strings and learn to play that banjo.
     It's an ancient house with no closets. Handmade shelves for the books, handmade cabinets for the plates, the pots and pans. No doors on any pantry anywhere. I know it drives some people mad, but it will never be different. There are too many exciting things to do, too many places to go. A new treasure to bring home. The bottom of an old brass fire extinguisher holds a half-dozen canes, at least that many swords and maybe even a pistol somewhere in the depths. Though we dust, there is dust everywhere. We live in the woods.
     Maggie loves hanging things from the ceiling fans. Feathered angels, little bells, potpourri in pretty brass balls, mobiles that tinkle and dance each time I walk under them. There are wires here and there that I always mean to move. Over twenty five years of projects still undone leaves extension cords where there should be outlets in my cluttered house.
     But there's always so much to do....places to go, people to see. A meeting for lunch somewhere with salad and wine, a tournament at some overly decorated miniature golf course with tigers in the trees, giraffes on the fairway. Whiskey tastings and concerts, road trips to play music at festivals, trips to Europe to play music on so many stages, in so many clubs. Up early and out late, it's just who we are.
     And then, there are the books still unwritten. Always scraps of paper in my pockets, on any flat surface, most with a short description of an event, the way an eyebrow had been raised. The shape of a tree limb, maybe, or the flow of a dress. I'm always writing, though rarely at my desk. I have an endless filing cabinet in my head with a system only I know for recovery. It disappears, then spills out when I write, usually in the right order.
     No one knows how to write. Writers just do what they must, and that's all. Writers write, even if it's on the walls.