This post is about my writing desk.
I recently (last week) moved into a new apartment. Now I knew in this new living space, I wanted my own area for my writing. The idea manifested from a million and a half desks bought, constructed, and placed in my room in order to compel me to scribble every day. But just like the million and a half diaries and journals bought in the same vein, I would use that journal and desk for about a day and then leave it to blank empty pages … or an assortment of dirty clothing.
But I was bent on succeeding this time around. I would have a writing nook, just like when I played Sims 3 and gave my avatar an adorable and cozy little writing room. It would be mine. I would write every day. And that was that.
In order to find the perfect desk, I headed out to Goodwill. And there it was, marked at 9.99. A gigantic brilliant sturdy wooden writing desk, with four drawers on each leg and one of those little pencil drawers in the middle. The thing was as big as a baby elephant, and as slick and beaten up and magnificent as an old race horse. And it spoke out to me, “Hello, Jenni. I am your writing desk.”
So that is when I took Calderon Herman Orwell Rowling Dickens of St. Petersberg III home (CHORD for short).
Chord now sits under my laptop, resting nicely with relics taken from the closeout sale of fixings and furntire at the local Borders (rest his soul), and I’ve written nearly every day.
Now of course there’s a reason for me to tell you about my new best friend. It’s to remind you to find yourself some place in your clutter of a life to make up shop for what is important. You’ve got couches, posters, coffee makers, and unfinished work brought home from the office. You’ve got dinners to make, lunches to serve, and breakfasts to skip for rush hour. But somewhere in there, please find yourself a desk. Please find yourself an hour at that desk. Place a big blank white piece of paper up on the wall above it, and remind yourself that this is worth lugging a seventy-pound block of wood up three flights of concrete stairs. It’s worth not watching that last half an hour of the Gilligan’s Island marathon. It’s worth it. So do it.
Happy writing.
