haha o wow....
The forever huge mess that spills over from the desk to the chaise to the floor.
Piles and pile of papers, notebooks, and all sorts of odds and ends that nobody in their right mind would hold on to, and have no sentimental value-- but are held on to, because inspiration lurks everywhere.
Multitudes of books: psychology, history, medical... whatever, because I want to be an intellegent writer. not to mention the many books written by those before me.
A copy of Salinger's 9 Stories, for character study close at hand
An unsatiable appetite for a larger vocabulary
Hours of reclusive pondering, only to come up with nothing.
Pages and pages of sentences, paragraphs, half-ideas, and endings.... all in complete dissarray of course.
Folders thrown everywhere, in a forfeited attempt at organization
Walls covered in scriptures, pictures of loved ones, things that represent my dreams and goals, inspring photography, abstract statuettes and such.
and finally-- a mess of pens around, except for any situation in which a brillant idea is quickly fleeting... they are so very elusive aren't they?
O, wait-- the constant feeling that thoughts are too pure to be captured and transferred through such an unpure medium... and having people constantly say things like, "what are you talking about?"