I have to admit to being guilty of sloth, and it makes itself known in the form of an abject and absolute refusal to pick up after myself and the ability of an ADD-riddled brain that can look at a mess I made and render it invisible.

I’ve got a pretty sweet set up for a writing office. Lots of bookshelves, lots of books, the entire 20-volume edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, the printed edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, a “hutch” to type/write at, and with a swivel of my chair a nice big desk to edit/write/work at. Yet more often than not--hell, let’s be honest and call it what it is--ninety-five percent of the time all the surfaces in this office are cluttered with paper, books, telephones, CDs, computer and coaxial cables (yeah, I know, huh?), folders containing writing I did in high school, a stray shirt or sweatshirt, and so they are rarely, if ever, used as they should be. Today, as I’m getting closer and closer to the heart of a story I’ve been working on for many years, I’m realizing what I am: a slob. I’m a slob. Why is this important now, and why am I bothering you with it? Because I can’t focus, concentrate, and organize a very complex story if the place I choose to create and write it in resembles the mess left over from a demolition crew. I can’t be cluttered. And this is as good a way as any I know to come out of the closet, and declare war against my addiction: clutter.

Hello, my name is (not) Jonathan, and I’m a clutter-addict.

None of my close friends or family would be surprised to hear this. If they were planning on stopping by, they wouldn’t need to call and ask if I’d straightened things up - nope, they would be confident in their knowledge that my nightstand is overflowing with books and papers, the hamper is probably overstuffed with clothes, the bed certainly isn’t made, the kitchen counters need to be straightened (the coffee maker goes here, the supplements and medications for the cats and dogs go in the cabinet, the dirty fork in the sink goes in the dishwasher), and the kitchen table, well, *sigh*. And I’ve already told you about the office. They’d get that right too. Their call would be to warn me that they were on their way, and I better get with it and make the place presentable.

Today I got a head start on turning not just my office, but my entire condo, into a place conducive to creativity. The kitchen has been reorganized and straightened (I actually have a kitchen table now), and I’ve gone through all stray paper in my office, shredded annoying mounds of months worth of credit card offers, and recycled the rest. The cables found a lovely home in a drawer, and I finally have all of the handouts from this term’s sci-fi/fantasy workshop and notes from my Reading as a Writer workshop together in one place. Tomorrow I attack the books in my office and in my bedroom, and they will find their way to the many empty spaces on shelves that are holding a place for them.

I have a friend who believes that a cluttered desk/office is the sign of a cluttered mind, and while that may not be true for everyone, it’s true for me when I’m in my cluttered office.

I honestly think that my lack of organization, my lifelong addiction to clutter, is every bit as much of an impediment as alcoholism would be. I mean no disrespect to those struggling with any addiction; I have been glib, yes, but I’m very sincere. Clutter blocks me. It might as well be the bottle of Jack Daniels that demands to be consumed every night, and pounds its anger and impairments again in the morning. Clutter is constant, consistent, and coercive. It forces me deeper into sloth.

So I’ve come out with my addiction, and while I’m not aware of a 12-step program for this, I intend to pursue its defeat as systematically as any program could. I’ve a story to tell, so, yes. A place in which to write it is needed.