Who is to say that having a clean house isn’t a higher calling than writing a novel? Maybe all this time I’ve been feeling superior to housecleaning-tip-exchanging moms for no good reason. Sure, I’ve got all these words blackening pages of bleached stained printer paper, but half the bills get paid late simply because I can’t find them on my desk and I have yet to invite my neighbor inside because I can’t really see the importance of getting the clean clothes out of the laundry basket and into the closet.

If I cleaned house maybe I’d have more friends and better credit (What? I don’t remember getting that bill!) Hey, it’s not like I don’t love The Container Store. And yes, now that I’m safely married I don’t fall for inane lines like I used to, unless they’re on the cover of Real Simple convincing me that this time, oh this time, it will all work out. Take me home, take me home…you know you want to…and your life will be the better for it…

But of course like the man who isn’t who you think, Real Simple isn’t a cure. Sure it has its moments but mostly it just covers up another bill.

Oh, all right, maybe the comparison doesn’t work, but I don’t care. I’ve got a manuscript in a worse mess than my apartment (realistically, how many times can a teenage girl run away from home?), and while I’ve heard cleanliness is next to godliness–what is writing next to? Anyone heard?

But hey, if cleanliness is next to godliness does that mean it will give me powers to be everywhere and know everything and answer prayers and smite my enemies (dust bunnies need to be taught a real lesson in smiting). Doesn’t sound too different from being a novelist, actually. And it’s a lot more fun to smite an ex-boyfriend in a novel than to bring judgment day to the heathen dust bunnies.

You know, when I start comparing writing to housework, it is time to drink vodka in my closet.