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I make lists like bunnies make babies. There’s something about the act of writing up a list that makes one feel more in control when the entire world is off-kilter. However, the actual lists, they aren’t as cute and cuddle, or near as enjoyable, as the process of making them. …I may have picked a bad metaphor.

Anyway, I’m a list maker. I make grocery lists and to-do lists, lists of dreams and places to travel. I list stuff I plan to pack when I go on a trip. I even make them at work to keep on task. Or procrastinate.

Most of my lists end up in the trash, but there are a few, a golden few, I keep. One is a list of writing projects with summaries. When I’m feeling stuck, I look at it or add to it. Sometimes I want to rip it up. Fortunately, it’s on my computer, so I can’t actually tear it to shreds and then regret it later.

Lists make things feel like they have order and reason. But they don’t, not really. They have themes instead, I think. Each of my lists has its own theme. Individually, they are never exactly the same, but there are repeated elements, like eggs and bread and milk on a grocery list. My dreams change in specifics too, but the core stays the same: travel and writing and recognition. My lists and their themes say a lot about me. And maybe, if I get the courage, one day I’ll share a few.

 

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