Who was it that said something about a cluttered desk indicating a busy mind? Was it Marx? His desk was always piled high with his papers.
I've always gotten messy when I'm the busiest, working on a project or focused on a task. And I've observed that most people I know to be Oscars are very busy doers. They make new things. Those I know to be Felixes, on the other hand, tend to be dreamers. They don't create many new things but battle to keep the status quo in perfect order.
My normal modus operandus is excessive--probably compulsive--neatness. I hate clutter. I tell myself that it's just a matter of efficiency: when things are out of place or hidden from view, I can't find them easily. My grandfather must have passed this neatness gene to me, because he always said, "There should be a place for everything and everything in its place."
But I recognize that neatness per se doesn't help me think or imagine better. When I clear my desk and put away my projects, I feel a certain sense of control returning but don't have any new ideas; all I've done is restore things as I remember they were. So I've concluded that at least in some cases, things strewn all over means that someone is busy, and whoever made the mess needs the mess in order to do what he or she is trying to do. I guess that when we create, we make a mess.
Ironically, I try to tickle my muse by endless tidying and straightening, and it never works. The more orderly things are, the less I'm inspired. I wonder if this is just me or there's some relationship between neatness and creativity.
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The paperweight I have reads, "A Cluttered Desk is a Sign of Genius."
Everything around me looks cluttered -- but the operative word is looks. Really, even when all around me is in apparent disarray, I know where everything is. About the only time I ever lose anything is when my husband attempts to tidy up for me -- and he's learned not to do that!
I tend to organize thing in "heaps" -- as in, the heap on the right side of my desk, the heap on the headboard of the bed, the heap to the left of the front door. So long as I remember what heap something is in, I consider my life under control.
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