Messy desk, Messy Eni

When my brother, Vernon, was in the first grade he had a fellow student named Enid. Vernon, an eager and rules-abiding 6 year old, reported that Enid had “a very messy desk.” In fact, said Enid, whom everyone called simply, “Eni,” was so unrepentantly messy, her desk so boldly in disarray that she’d earned her own tagline: “Messy desk, Messy Eni.” Why I should remember this particular anecdote so many years later, I’ve no idea. I never met Eni but she (and her tagline) has lived on in my memory lo all these years.

She came back to mind as I was blogging about my writing habits; I write by hand with pen or pencil on whatever writing surface is at hand, generally a purple composition note book but quite often scraps of paper, backs of envelopes—well you get the idea. Then I gather all my “notes” and begin typing into Word on my laptop. As you might imagine, this leads to a very messy desk indeed. Especially since I don’t write sequentially which means I must search among the small stacks of paper for whatever detail comes next. It’s an exercise much like assembling a giant word puzzle. As I was doing this one day, Messy Desk, Messy Eni popped into my mind. And I found myself wondering, not for the first time, what is wrong with a messy desk? I’m not a messy person but I have a messy desk.

I find the piles of paper on my desk comforting. Visible proof that I am working at my passion, that I am writing. Maybe I just love paper. In high school I abandoned loose leaf binders, adopting instead a casual filing system which was essentially a bunch of loose papers stacked and thrown in my briefcase. Yes briefcase. Yes, Virginia, I was that nerd.

There’s some cleaning product that has the tagline “Life’s messy. Clean it up.” But I can’t for the life of me recall what product it advertises. But I have an issue with it. Life’s messy, yes. But that’s what makes it interesting and worthwhile. So, why clean it up? (WARNING: to any kids who may be reading this: you may not use this argument to get out of cleaning your room.)

TSE and I have our offices at opposite ends of the third floor. I never go into his room which is part office part workroom; he sews: drapes, pillows, dog coats. But his room is a mess. Stacks of exquisite pricy fabrics, a tower of pillow liners, a pile of sketches. There is stuff piled on every surface.
Yet everything he makes is perfect, beautiful. He's a conjurer making beauty out of chaos, disorder.

My office is neat, with a place for everything, but my desk is messy. And my head is messy—stuffed with bits of dialogue, half formed characters, the date the dogs go in for their rabies booster (May 22, if you’re wondering), memories of my first job, my first kiss. The point is my head is stuffed with my life, with stories, with memories too precious to file away neatly in some unused corner of my brain, Messy desk, messy Eni, for example.

So what’s a poor writer to do? Embrace the mess.