WHAT THE HECK DOES THIS MEAN?

The desk of a writer can be a scary and confusing place for outsiders. Entering uninvited should be met with the same caution as entering Poe's lair. And yes, I believe he had a lair. You cannot write The Raven and not have one.

In slightly lighter environments, writer's doodle. When the muse hits, we rush to jot down our ramblings on paper.  We open a new doc. Enter a few lines, knowing that only we will be able to piece together the puzzling thoughts we've jotted down on random pieces of paper. We target old bills, envelopes, and shamefully, a child's report card. Relax. It only happened once. I was out of Post Its and the legal pads were out of reach. No judging.

So it's true to say that no notable surface is safe. But sometimes our notes get lost, shuffled around, and buried under piles of other crazy-sauce. Weeks pass. Dust settles. We cough and decide to clean up the clutter. Only to discover that old Post It. The envelope. The kids report card that was supposed to be signed and returned. I emailed the teacher. It's fine. Let it go.

But what's to be done about deciphering my own ramblings after all this time? Well, it took me a minute, but I finally got that I needed dog food. I must have picked that up already. The dog looks fine. Check. Deli meat, also check. My daughter definitely got a haircut. I do recall that much. And then it all came together. I was not vowing to never leave some dude named Lesley Nelson Burns. He wrote a song a character was going to sing in one of my stories, and they were going to play an instrument, something soothing and romantic. This was also good news for my daughter who had read my crazy-sauce and thought I was getting her a 'stupid flute' for a graduation present. I think I might call the consignment shop. I bet they'll have one for cheap.

She'll never read my notes again. Good times.

So what's some of your crazy-sauce? Find the nearest scrap of paper and do tell.


Happy Friday!