My basement was full of stuff. After 24 years of accumulating, I finally started decluttering, and it was so satisfying.

• I used my creativity as an excuse for having a cluttered home.

• My 1,500-square-foot basement was filled to the max with things.

• I decided to finally declutter and said goodbye to things I didn't think I could part with.

A sign on my home office door says, "Creative People Don't Have a Mess; They Have Ideas Lying Around Everywhere."

I've used my "creativity" as an excuse to accept the growing collection of unused miscellany in my house, which stretches from a forgotten attic to a huge basement with more than 1,500 square feet of nooks and crannies in which to hide things.

I can no longer blame the mess on the kids, as my baby is now 29 years old.

I am not, and will never be, a minimalist. But having lived through cleaning out my parents' home, I'm determined to leave a curated and coherent legacy of stuff behind. Unlike my peers who've been decluttering to stage their homes for sale, I'm cleaning out because I'm not selling; I plan to stay put for a while.

I've read the tidying-up books and downloaded the checklists. But my desire to save things had somehow been stronger than the impulse to unload. Perhaps I was riding the joy of owning my own home, with a husband and two kids, after moving my one carload of items from rental to rental 15 times in 12 years.

I've created a three-step process to trick myself into saying goodbye to my junk without squashing my personality or memories.

Gamify

I choose a small area, such as a file drawer, closet, or shelf. Here's the trick: I plan a meaningful reward for completing the task, such as a coffee drink with whipped cream or a pedicure. I crank up whatever guilty-pleasure music I like, set a timer, and get to work.

To make it more fun, I've found declutter buddies: people who won't judge you and can spend time with you and your things. I paid a lovely, nonjudgmental professional organizer who was also a friend, so it was like a play date. As an added benefit, she carried out bins of items to donate or discard. My siblings and I had parties complete with food and drink to go through countless boxes of family photos.

Memorialize

I begin the task by opening the drawer or emptying the container. And there they are: my short shorts from freshman year, the wooden thingy my high-school boyfriend made me in the shop, the wig I wore to the best Halloween party ever, and letters I received while I was at camp.

I sit there and have a good cry. Then, I take pictures, record my thoughts, or write a reflection to capture the story because it's rarely the item itself that's precious.

I choose to save the story and ditch the item.

Donate

I believe every possible item on this Earth could be donated, gifted, sold, or recycled.

I joined my local BuyNothing group on Facebook, where you post a picture of your "give" for neighbors to come to your house and take it away. I got rid of broken crayons, several hundred rubber bands, a free patent-leather purse from Ulta, half-used hurricane candles, a too-small blazer with tags still on, and my to-die-for suede shoes from France that always killed my feet.

I placed items on my side yard with a "free" sign and watched them disappear. I gave old linens to the local animal shelter and takeout utensils to a nearby homeless facility. The Vietnam Veterans of America carted away scores of boxes from my home.

For everything else, I'm grateful to live in a town that recycles electronics, paper, plastic, metal, and textiles and has a "take it or leave it" shed for donating household treasures.

I'm making headway. I'm finally able to say goodbye to my belongings, knowing they'll be adopted, live to serve others, and in the words of Donna Summer, "Have the last dance, last chance, for love."

Ivy Eisenberg is a writer living in White Plains, New York. She is working on a memoir about growing up in the groovy and turbulent 1960s in Queens, New York.

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