Most of the time my room looks like a small tornado hit. I usually classify it as organized chaos, but when I get that itch to clean, it’s usually one of two things: I can’t function in the mess OR I’m in writing mode. I find it kind of hilarious that I can do homework, write papers, read a book, do pretty much anything in a messy room. Granted, I can write if I’m jotting down a blurb or a passing thought, but if it’s the full on spirit of writing knocking on my door, I must have order. The tornado rewinds and there’s the “Finally!” moment of clear floors and a made bed and a clean dresser and desk. The hilarious part is that I might only spend forty-five minutes writing the “masterpiece” I prepared an entire room for. Exchanging the cluttered room and cluttered mind for a clean room and even more cluttered mind seems slightly backwards, but I’ve heard at least once (no idea where) that artists have cluttered minds and clean workspaces. That last part is probably a lie. It would seem intuitive then that to make up for that clutter, artists would have clean workspaces. I highly doubt any true artist is that organized. I don’t always categorize writers as artists; their crafts have always seemed so different to me. Poets, painters, sculptors, photographers — each is obviously an artist. Poets are writers though. Fiction is art. It’s taken me forever to see it, but an author can so ensnare the soul of a reader that the reader is brought to tears of joy or despair, laughing in triumph, feeling a stab of betrayal. Writers paint with words rather than colors, and if done right, the imagery is captivating and so utterly, completely real. Only an artist could bring so much emotion and empathy to something made out of a combination of twenty-six letters. Every time I think about that, I’m blown away. Twenty-six letters. Huh. What a beautiful mess language is. Amidst all the clutter and ideas is the unifying chaos that is language. An art unto itself. If I can one day figure out how to use twenty-six letters to set a heart racing, to move someone to tears, to create exhaltation and anger and peace and love and hope and hate in both pages and souls; if I can do that that, I will perhaps consider myself an artist.