Since 2005 I have had many deadlines and I am absolutely grateful for every one of them.

I love writing novels and short stories. I love writing, period. It’s like words and letters live in my blood and I have to write. If I lost my arms, I am sure I would stick a pencil in my mouth and type with my teeth. No, I’m not kidding.

But the deadlines come pretty fast and I have to put My Thinker (Le Brain) to work and haul another story out of it on a regular basis, even if the story kicks and screams and throws fits.

I spend a lot of time drinking coffee and drawing out plot lines,  listening to music to find a literary rhythm and emotional depth for the book, staring into space while giving characters problems and personalities, and watching people (I know, odd, isn’t it? But I don’t watch people in a creepy way, I am just … studying them). I read, sometimes make collages before I start writing, talk to our cat who is in love with my husband, and listen to everything everyone says to me very closely. When the moon is blue and the stars are dancing, I start sketching out another character and a book is launched.

But during this process and the actual writing that goes into the wee hours of the morning, the endless editing/revising/drafting, deleting, the proofing, etc. my house accumulates an enormous amount of … stuff. That’s what it is, stuff.

Between sending my last novel, “A Different Kind of Normal” off in late December and now, I have taken off almost three weeks, which included Christmas, and ignored all the stuff. There were many kids here during that time period, some of whom we apparently own. There was lots of celebrating, and more pounds were added to my behind because the food was absolutely exquisite this year.

The kids, Innocent Husband, and I took down all the Christmas paraphernalia together, then headed out to Benihanas. In our house, if you don’t drag your butt or make ‘poor me’ sounds while cleaning up the Christmas stuff, you get to go. Yes, we bribe our children.

But after the kids went back to school I knew the house was drowning and so was my mind. I decided to attack it, in a non violent way, of course, and get the extraneous stuff out.

I have cleaned my garage, which looked like a mini – tornado had hit and left a messy Dorothy, a scattered Tin Man, and a destroyed Scarecrow. I have taken bags and bags from all over the house to Goodwill.  I have cleaned kitchen cabinets and wondered why I had 690 lids for pans and five strainers. I threw out Halloween stuff I will never use, including my tooth fairy outfit, a warted witch, and an eyeball held by a green hand. I invaded my attic and now I can walk in it. I had so much to shred I had to take it out to a professional paper shredding place. I have redecorated my living room with pillows, funky stuff, an old dresser living in my garage that I spiffed up, and now I finally like it.

My mind feels like it has lost 300 pounds.

Dust does not bother me. Not having a perfectly clean house is not a problem ever. In fact, when I go in people’s houses that are cold and sterile, it makes me nervous. What if I dropped a chocolate chip brownie that I had balanced on my head? What if I was drinking a strawberry milkshake and I laughed so hard I spit it out?  What if my socks were muddy from my afternoon run? What if I sat in the wrong place?

But STUFF in my house, that bugs me.  Stuff clogs my home then clogs my mind. It stifles creativity, dreaming, designing, planning and plotting, and my mental wings. It’s a nuisance and a constant reminder that I have a lot to do.

One time I was complaining to my mother, in a whiny sort of way, when my kids were young because I never felt like I could get the house clean. She said, “Honey, just get one layer of dirt off.” I have remembered her saying that for years and I have applied it again and again: Get one layer off.

I have two more days to continue this non-violent house attack on my house before I need to sit down with a journal and start daydreaming about the next book, which is due at the end of March.

The garage is not perfect. Neither is the attic. But there is one layer off, gone, poof – disappeared – like the Wizard of Oz.

They were big layers, too. Huge. I didn’t know there was an extra hose, sixteen boxes of paperwork, 15 plastic lids for plastic boxes, a broken wheel barrow, and an abundance of small, confusing things that I am sure belong to the Tin Man, stuck in the corners of the garage. Dorothy is missing. The Scarecrow is no more.

So this is what I have learned once again: Throw Stuff Out, Cathy. Keep throwing.

I think better when I do. I write better when the house is lighter because it makes my thoughts lighter, my feelings lighter, my brain lighter.

Two days.

That’s all I have left before I need to start writing again.

How much can I throw? How fast can I throw it?

In a super nerdy sort of way, it’s actually sort of exciting to contemplate…

Note to self: Do not throw out Innocent Husband or the cat who is in love with him. That would be excessive.