The desk I sit at each day to craft my stories-don't laugh-is my desk from junior high. Last week, under the pressure of the black hole that is my top middle drawer and the sheer weight of my determination to finish the !*&^*% book, my stalwart, maple slice of childhood began bursting at the seams.
I could boast about how the brilliant craftsmanship, the tongue and groove design, made it possible to save this relic; but, instead, I'll tell you what this desk says about me.
It makes me think about my Dad, who gave it to me as the single most important item in my twelve year old life. Having a good desk to study at in my own quiet room diverted my attention from my Jack Wagner posters and groomed me for a life of focus. Twenty years later, he hauled it across many miles to return it to me. Rags and lemon oil in hand, we brought the richness back together.
It helps me to recall how intense the raging crush I had back then must have been to have carved this boy into immortality, front and center. He was Ryan, and I can tell you that because his name eventually made it into my previous novel as the hero's given name-a secret only the heroine knows. As it was back then. Only the desk knew.
The desk has claw marks on the edge from a cat I miss dearly, hundreds of number shadows and equations visible at eye level in perfect light, and holds inside it every glimmer of hope, all tangible evidence of this dream. It's loyalty, character and history packaged into not enough space and inadequate leg room and height, but I can't think of better inspiration.
What does your space say about you?
Oh, and I'm laughing because I actually had the nipple photo on my wall