Many seem to think I’m highly organised. I suppose to some extent I am. I’ve got that everything in it’s place mentality. However the bed in my front room has turned into a makeshift return for critiqued chapters, chapters to critique, research notes, the thesaurus and dictionary, items to proofread or things already proofread. I can’t seem to get out of the habit of piling crap on the floral print bedspread.
I can’t even begin to describe the dirty little secret under the bed. Seven plastic containers full of previous novels, like the first one at a hefty 217,000 words (Smoke Gets In Our Eyes–I just couldn’t stop writing!), the second (A Simple Overexposure, a modern, semi-gothic love story) that deserves to be polished because William Murphy is my favourite creation so far, my third (a romantic comedy) still making the rounds with publishers, that partial fourth (Dreaming of Deja vu, a time travel with a cool concept), and fifth (see below for titile, an attempt at a comedic crime thriller that needs a shitload of research that I’d really like to continue), as well as the current WIP, masters lit review/research notes and the ridiculous Oldbitey forray into collage…
Then there’s the cupboard above the wardrobe. That’s full of books I have no shelf space for, a few copies of MS #1 (672 pages!!) and hats.
Did I mention the intrays beside the desk? They’re marked NM Maps, Critique and Current.
How about the upright file holder on top of the PC tower? Right next to that are the white notebooks marked Genuine Research for Genuine Imitation Naugahyde. And the green one for A Basic Renovation.
Organised?
Well, I could be. If I had some new furniture. Maybe I just need a nap.
But that would mean I’d have to clear off the bed.