Let's just say I'm glad you can't. If a neat office is the sign of an organized person, boy, am I in trouble. I keep thinking that once _____ is over, I'll get a handle on things, but there's always something else after that. My writing life is insane, and don't even ask about the world outside this room.
I was discussing busy-ness with someone yesterday who agreed with me that some pressure is good and too much is petrifying. When too many things pile into my brain, I become like the raccoon I caught raiding my bird feeder a few days ago: frozen with indecision about what to do next. And if some of the problems aren't solvable, it's worse. All that adrenalin and stomach acid just floats around under your skin, never getting used up.
I certainly never want to be without something to look forward to, but some days I could do with less that absolutely needs to be done right now. It's great that my short story was chosen for the Christmas anthology, but did the news have to come on the day I'm headed out to a weekend appearance? When will I get the ancillary materials to the publisher? And what about my upcoming book? They'll be wanting an edited version any day now, and of course there are ancillary items there as well. And calls keep coming in for speaking engagements, which means I should be polishing up those outlines.
I am not complaining. I love the writing, the speaking, and even the editing. I need to be busy. But at the moment, when the current WIP file hasn't even been opened for three days, I could use a month with nothing but time to actually W on the WIP. Since that's not going to happen, I'll keep digging through the stacks of to-do lists on my desk.
And I won't complain about it any more here. Promise.