All my life, i have created disorder. I have lived in clutter. My closets were always full of clothes that should be washed some day. The inside of my refrigerator looked like a food fight in a supermarket. And the top of my stove had so much grease, the mice could skate on it.

As for my office, no one ever knew if I was there because the piles of books and papers and old running shoes were so high that I easily could be underneath.

People told me I was messy and that I should be ashamed to live in chaos. Ashamed I was, but I did nothing because that is what messy people do. Nothing.

And now, wonderful to say, I have been vindicated. Messiness can be good. For out in the wilds of Minnesota, a university professor has done a study that found that messy people are creative people. And creativity makes the world go ’round.

Aha, you say, how does my creativity manifest itself? Let me give you an example or two:

Years ago, I decided I could take up art as a hobby. So, I bought art boards and brushes and paints and set out to be a painter. Hindered somewhat by not being able to draw, I focused on abstract art and worked through many tubes of paint. It was difficult, but we creative people persevere. After a year, I produced something that could be looked upon as art. It took the form of a large red ball floating over a field of what could be either wheat or silage.

I took this painting to a framer I knew and laid it in front of him, right side up.

He looked at it. “What’s this?” he asked.

“A painting.”

“Ah,” he said.

“I’d like it framed,” I said.

For a moment, he was silent. Then, he snickered. Then, he snorted and broke into raucous laughter. His wife came out of the workroom to see what the fuss was about.

“Paul wants this framed,” he told her.

She erupted in giggles.

As far as I know, that painting could still be sitting on that counter – for I had stalked out of the shop in high dudgeon. (As we creative people say.)

So, I gave up painting and went into wood carving. Creative and messy at the same time, with wood chips and sawdust everywhere. The first thing I carved was a small duck. I passed it around, and three out of five people were able to see its duckiness. The others thought it could be a mink. I tried carving out a few other animals, which took me about 13 years, before it finally dawned on me that perhaps I could find a more suitable field.

Sitting there in a sea of wood chips, bandages and leftover paint tubes, I decided to become a real writer. I would be a novelist. And in fairness to myself, I sat down and, over the course of one summer, I wrote a novel, shoved it into an envelope and mailed it off to the woman who was foolish enough to act as my agent.

I don’t know if anyone actually snickered or groaned. But, after a couple of months, my manuscript came back with a note that said: “The reader didn’t like it very much.”

I took that as a complete rejection, but I carried on in a welter of paper. If I couldn’t write a meaningful novel, perhaps I could write a murder mystery. So, I took another summer off and wrote a murder mystery that included groundhogs as key players.

Yes, indeed, that mystery story came back. And, once more, I threw it into a box of old receipts. But never say die.

If writing in the summer didn’t work, perhaps writing in the winter would. And I would write about something I knew. So, I went to the cottage and wrote all about winter. Then, I sent that effort off to an editor. She sent back a large envelope and then she left the country. I threw that envelope into my box of rejects.

But you will be pleased to know I haven’t given up. I still live in clutter among boxes of old papers and overdue library books.

And my creativity could rise again.

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