This is my collection of writings for the three hundred and sixty five day writing challenge - where one has to write something daily, every day, for one whole year, based on the prompts provided - as part of an exercise to improve creative writing...
"Hey, even writers and creative artists have to do housework sometimes. Write about doing laundry, dishes, and other cleaning activities. "
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Cute kid, right? Absolutely enjoying the chance to mop the floors. I wonder why kids love sweeping, mopping, doing the dishes, washing clothes, all those boring yet necessary activities to keep our homes neat and clean. It is a fascination which fades with age, fun that slowly turns to frustration, a game that becomes a chore.
It is not that I do not like neat and clean surroundings, I do my daily bit to ensure my home and office desk do not look like a pig sty, my things are kept in relative order and yes, the surroundings are neat and clean. I like a certain order and I do work to maintain it that way.
However, they are not chores that I enjoy, and given even a tiny chance I will postpone doing them. I do like ironing clothes, watching the hot plate smooth out the wrinkles and the hiss of the steam coax away the fold lines is cathartic.
But the other chores, quite a bore!
Office clothes, run the washing machine once a week (it is energy efficient and we cut down on water consumption too), cleaning the clothes cupboard (alternate weekends, which also gets postponed at times), dusting, (rarely done, I have a reason, I have dust allergy, so for me static, stationary dust is less harmful that the dust mites that float when you dust. Who am I kidding, I have my maid do it for me, while I maintain a safe distance) and arranging my books (this task never gets done, I finish one stack and then suddenly discover a book, or rather re-discover a book and start reading it.) All my book cleaning activities end the same way, one rack of books spread around me, while I sit in a corner, sneezing profusely and reading a book for the hundredth time. Funny, how each reading is a new journey, a comfortable one for I know how and where it goes, yet it is always a new one.
Then there are a couple of people I know, who have made cleanliness their mission, the house is always sparkling and clean, the floors are spickety span, the newspapers look like they have been ironed, the flower pots are perfect (I think the leaves are terrified of growing haphazardly, they seem to be orderly too) and the list goes on. They spend every minute of their free time cleaning their house and stuff. I love the end results but just thinking of the effort tires me and, at times, to be honest, I would rather read a novel than dust the sofas, one more time.
I would feel guilty till I discovered this poem,a gem that tells me the dusting is not a must; and I go back to reading mynovel, one more time.
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