On messy rooms

There are, as I see it, several advantages to keeping a room untidy.

No one can steal anything from you. They look at the piles of papers, heaps of clothes, stacks of clutters to either side of that narrow path going from door to bed and see an incomprehensible tangle of mess. But to you, ah, there is organization. You alone know there is money tucked into books, important papers mixed with scrap, priceless gems mingled with plastic jewelry.

I'm sure that sounds rather paranoid, but to an older sibling distrustful of a sister four years my junior, and a brother even younger than that, this is perfectly rational. If I have to trip and stumble and sprain my ankles to find something, they won't even bother looking for it in the first place.

A messy room is a quiet way of saying "uh, no thank you" to social interaction. And also parental order. I cleaned my room maybe four times a year, when I was a) forced to, b) bribed to, c) was bored and it was raining and I had no books to read (often because all the good ones were buried) or d) thought maybe I would find enough change lying around to buy a candy bar. I claimed I could not function with a clean room; that is still true, somewhat: if things are organized and put in proper places, I completely forget about them. That homework I had to turn in? Oh, it was in my desk drawer. That pair of really nice jeans? I put them in the dresser when I cleaned up my room last time, six months ago. The one necklace I own? Tossed responsibly into a jewelry box. Well, no wonder I couldn't find it. It was put away somewhere that made sense for it to be.



Perhaps it is indicative of how my brain works. I write my stories much like I organize my room. There is a vague outline put to paper, but the rest of the ideas stay up in my head, scattered around the fictional world (as they should be) like lonely crumpled socks and missing beads. I know all my clean clothes are on my bed, remember seeing that one particular black shirt in a sea of black shirts, shorts, and panties just like I remember that tidbit of dialog I wrote six months ago has a place in the scene I wrote last night.

Cleaning my room is doing a service for someone else. I don't like my room clean; it's my room, why should I arrange it in a way that is pleasing to others? They don't live there, they don't sleep there, they don't keep their stuff there. I live and sleep and keep my stuff there, and I like my stuff messy. You may not know that the pile of clothes behind the door is dirty. You may not know that I have a mental catalog of where I toss what skirt after I take it off. You may not know that I am aware of exactly where certain socks and undies are, jammed between the wall and my mattress. You can't tell which papers on my desk are scrap and which are pages of stories jotted down hastily in the wrong notebook.

"I refuse to organize my life -- it would ruin the creative process"

That's from a little black and green button tacked to my school bag that I've had for six years, and it applies directly to my room. I refuse to clean it up. I don't care if I can't see the floor. I don't care that I stub my toes and twist my ankles on objects buried beneath jackets and pajamas. I don't care that there's a suitcase in the middle of the walkway, that there's a laundry basket in front of my desk, or that there is a bin of important files behind  my door. It's cozy, it's messy, and I like it just the way it is.