The argument is that a messy environment is a better stimulus to creativity. A few novelists and poets that I've known have had neat and orderly offices, but most of them work in offices that should be condemned as health hazards: leftover food and half-drunk cups of coffee, stacks of books and reams of paper threatening to topple over, dog or cat hair floating through the air.
When people ask me why I never became the novelist that I wanted to be, I reply, "I realized that I had nothing to say."
Maybe the problem is that I can't stand to have anything out of place? That I literally can't concentrate if the books are out of order in my bookcase?
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