Solitude and a Solid Piece of Furniture

 

My desk has been through a lot. It’s a great big computer-tower cabinet on one side, file drawer on the other, full hutch on top, desk. I bought it to put my first Dell on, some nine years ago.

I put it together myself, in the extra room we made my office. If you were to look closely you could probably guess I did it alone, though I mostly followed the directions. I’ll tell you—electric screwdrivers are worth the money. I wished for days that I’d had one.

I’ve moved this behemoth—well, moved houses twice. Moved among rooms two or three times more. I’ve dumped coffee on it and shoved cats off it and once my neighbor pushed it down a flight of stairs.

Once I rolled it from one room to another, because I wanted it done and no one could get around to helping me.

You might guess it’s showing some damage. I bought it at WalMart on clearance for a hundred bucks, so it’s okay that the finish is wearing off the top. The keyboard shelf tilts a bit. The bottom is scraped and in one place splintered from sliding down the stairs. It has water rings and ripped-off tape-marks, and in one tiny spot a close inspection would reveal dried bug guts from a long-ago foe that just won’t wash off.

I’ve written nine books at this desk. Edited—oh, a heck of a lot at it. Procrastinated more than I care to admit. I’ve even stood on this desk once or twice, but don’t tell the kid. It’ll give her ideas.

My desk hides my chocolate stash. It stores my gazillion writing implements and the tablets in all shapes and sizes that I can’t resist buying. It has index cards and post-it notes and NaNo stickers. It currently holds two knit squid and a fish pen.

You may have guessed that I love this desk. All my adventures, literary and otherwise, start here. But why am I waxing lyrical about my desk? Or at least, why now?

For eight years, through three homes, my desk has been in the living room. As the single parent of an adventurous child, I had to be there, or give up on writing until this kid who hates to sleep was asleep every night.

Yeah, no. Instead I wrote in the living room. I spent a lot of time wishing I didn’t have to, but I did.

The girl is almost fourteen now, though. She wants to have friends over, and miracle of miracles, not spend the whole time hiding in her room. It’s probably safe to leave them the living room. I hope. So now my desk is in my bedroom. I no longer want to toss the TV out the window. I don’t need to tell her to go to her room if she wants to use her phone. I’m not having my concentration shattered every five minutes or less by giggles or tilting chairs or repetitive and annoying movements. (By cats, however—I still have cats.)

I feel like I’m in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Or a Dr. Seuss book. I wanna jump on up and ride my desk like a surfboard to the stars.

And oh! The places we’ll go!

 

2 Comments:

  1. Hurrah for having your desk where it’s most useful and pleasant for you! I hope you have many more happy years together.

  2. Thank you! So do I. Now if I could just stop cruising all the stuff I didn’t dare look at when she might walk behind me any moment… >_>

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