Call me anal, Type A, or just plain crazy, but I love lists. There is nothing more satisfying than making a list, checking it twice, and crossing of the proscribed tasks or items one by one once they’ve been completed, purchased or structured. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, like I’ve truly achieved something. If it’s a truly important task, or I’ve exhausted a particularly trying list, it almost gives me a high to know it’s finished. 

Lists keeps me organized and, most importantly, sane. I have always had anxiety issues, and making lists is one way that I can manage my tendency to let worry run away with my emotions and good sense. If I’m feeling overwhelmed or out of sorts, normally a list will help me get myself back together again. It provides me the illusion that I haven’t forgotten anything. The house is a mess—make a list of the tasks to be done. My novel feels of track—make a list of the characters’ motivations and story arcs and figure out where I’ve gone wrong. The holidays are coming…

Oh, Christmas—the pièce de résistance of list-makers. The gifts to be purchased, the decorations to be hung, holiday cards to address, goodies to be baked—December is a never ending whirl of lists. And I love it! I know this seems insane, but it’s true. When the time rolls around to start my lists, I’m normally chomping at the bit to get started, and then I’m pestering my loved ones to death trying to fill them in with the presents they want or the new addresses they have. 

Non-list-makers normally react in one of three ways to my love of and need for lists. A) Horror—to them, lists are akin to torture, and they would rather have their fingernails extracted before putting a pen to paper for such a task. B) Amusement—oh, silly Anna and her lists—why doe she need them so? C) Awe—these people only wish they could be so organized, but in the end, it’s low on their priorities. Oddly enough, the people who fall under type C are the ones who end up making me feel like a martyr. I learned long ago to laugh at my foibles and not impose my insane standards on others. And not to take it personally when someone berates me for these tendencies. Normally the frustration isn’t really aimed at me, but themselves. Just like how I wish I could be more spontaneous, others wish they could be more organized. I’m grateful for those who aren’t like me, for not only do they shake up my world and force me to be impulsive, they also give me some chaos to restructure later.