After vacation (Lord willin' and the creek don't rise) . . . I've promised to clean my office at home. Becky has given me an ultimatum. "Either you put things in order or I will!"
I don't know what all the fuss is about. I know where everything is located among the piles: two-year old manuscripts, cover letters, pre-addressed envelopes, postage stamps, essays, stories, poems, rejection letters, and more. I can reach into any of the piles, just like little Jack Horner, and pull out the plum I'm looking for.
"Your office looks like it was hit by a tornado." I take exception to this. In fact, I think my office is rather orderly . . . especially compared to other writer's spaces I've seen. My books are neatly stacked two and three deep in the bookshelves, I have my dictionary, thesaurus, Bible, concordance, and file for editorial addresses and phone numbers neatly assigned to a shelf above my old, gray Compaq computer. I have a lateral filing cabinet neatly organized, labeled and choked full of manuscripts, contracts, and royalty statements. I have my royalty stubs of the past fifteen years totalling $165.95 cents. And yes, I do have several piles of paper on the window sill and on the floor, but these are "working" piles, and I dare not disturb them, lest I let air into the interior, expose the "hot spot", and start a fire.
Later this week, while I'm hiking Mt. Rainier and Mt. Saint Helen's, I'll have a chance to explain these things to my wife. I'll woo her. Court her. Sweet talk her to the point where she will relent and say, "You know, I love your office just the way it is. Don't change a thing. Leave those piles strewn around the floor and I'll just vacuum around them, sweetheart. You're such a wonderful man, what was I thinking asking you to clean anything? I should be doing YOU favors . . . and starting as soon as we get back to Brownsburg, God help me, I WILL."
I'm going for this effect. I think I can do it. I have my romantic poems packed--one for each day of our trip--and I also have an ample supply of Rolaids, Ben-Gay, and Extra-Strength Tylenol. I have Motrin, too. And clean underwear.
It's no wonder the woman loves me. She knows I won't change. And if she gives me a headache, I'll just fight it off.
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