So . . . much . . . paper . . . .

With rumors of a prominent Twitter Sherlockian from downstate coming to visit this outpost of Baker Street worldwatch, I've set about the task of doing some cleaning and re-organizing Sherlock Peoria Central this week. And what did I encounter?

Paper. Tons and tons of paper.

Yes, there are books, of course, but they tend to be compact and manageable. It's all that other paper that was generated in the pre-internet Sherlockian world that takes up the space. Newsletters, journals, flyers, programs, notices, form letters, etc., all with just enough Sherlockian content to make them hard to throw away, yet not of much use once their freshness date has expired either.

I mean, am I ever going to go back and do a meeting retrospective of the Reichenbachian Cliff-divers when I never attended a single one of their functions? Probably not.

So many monographs, Christmas cards, and papers handed out at meetings, all with good Sherlockian information, but sorely in need of an indexing system just to make said data accessible. There might be some value in random access for inspiration at some point, or, I suppose, just making a hobby of cataloging them for some future Sherlockian to deal with.

And then we get to the letters. That thing that doesn't exist any more and makes you feel like you're a historical figure. The funny thing about letters is you just have the parts that everyone else wrote you. Who knows what you wrote them? (Well, maybe they do, unless they pitched the lot, like a sensible person. Me? Not so sensible.) E-mail is so nicely searchable.

So far I've cleaned up about three square feet, and am about to head into the deepest darkest part of the room . . . the place where the non-book paper Sherlockiana of a whole 'nother Sherlockian crashed into mine. But this is quickly turning into either a very dull blog entry or the worst humble brag ever. ("Hey, everybody, I have a bunch of vague stuff I'm not even going to bother to describe!") so I think I'll take a break from both the room and this, and go wash the dishes.

And I promise not to blog about that . . . .