That's Disgusting

"So phobic was her reaction to domesticity that she would rather have starved before boiling herself an egg."


Biographer Marion Meade on Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell is This?

Around me as I write are dusty piles of books and furry layers of dust; on my floor, hair and pollen, plus old boxes that need to be put out in recycling. In my purse are broken sunglasses; on the table is a pair of winter pants I've intended to bring to the dry cleaners for three months; and in my shower is black-orange mold that laughs daily at my can of Comet and idle threats. 


But I'm over 130 pages in to what looks, feels, sounds, smells, and tastes like a new story. I couldn't tell you for sure; I'm somewhat addled by dust that fills my senses like smog. 


I'm no Dorothy Parker; not only do I lack caustic wit but I actually enjoy scrubbing things down and making things beautiful. I believe environment, energy, and feng shui matter. My office is blessed with soothing colors--sage green, soft orange--and I enjoy inspirational posters, artwork, and a soft chair when writing at a desk no longer works. But the cobwebs, and that mysterious bug that's hung from the ceiling, and those tumbleweeds of cat hair? They somewhat dim the shine of this well-arranged room.


But my head is down and my senses are deep in the alternate universe I build. 


Occasionally I go on a cleaning spree. When a book is done, when a goal is met, things get scrubbed. Till then, I trust my nose has great filters and the body, a strong immune system. 


Just don't tell my mother.