I am a superfantastic organizer. I am a librarian. We like things in order for easy access. We can get you the best macaroni and cheese recipe Ina Garten ever concocted in as much time as we can locate the ASCAP information for “Ice, Ice Baby.” We honestly make dreams come true.
Now, onto my dreams. Where did I put them again? When it comes to the passionate spurts of adrenaline that power the genesis of any of my crazy ideas, I have learned, quite repeatedly, that my Type A personality really and truly does nothing for my creative life. I begin things and package them away into tiny little compartments that are meant to preserve their original luster, but really starve them of their will to live.
Here lie the bodies of thirty-six begun books (and many more purchased or borrowed without so much as a title page having been breached), seven sketched paintings, four notebooks of song lyrics to half-songs, and three-hundred-and-eighteen pieces of things I lovingly labeled “Cosas de Arte” and decorated with a torn magazine clipping of a Renaissance beauty. I am not, by any means, a hoarder. Except when it comes to my best intentions.
There they are, on a shelf. Staring at me. Unorganizable and, seemingly, unloved. But they are loved. They are loved so much. As a matter of fact, I fantasize about getting back together with them all the time.
Here’s to rekindling old flames and lighting up new ones. Because artistic promiscuity is okay, as long as you have good intentions.