I cleaned out my office for the first time in *mumble mumble*, the final act in a string of procrastinations masquerading as chores. With the help of a friend, I hung a painting which spent the last two years lying propped up against the wall of the guest bedroom. I dusted the baseboards, and then I painted them, a spate of productivity than can only exist when you are avoiding something (in my case – writing). And then, finally, I tackled the pile of papers of my desk, and on every horizontal surface around my desk (the papers had spread over, like flowing lava).
I have heard that some people need a clean workspace in order to write – the unproven hypothesis that it promotes productivity. So I wince a little when I think of my office, a place where Rand will occasionally poke his head through the door and