Three Writing Wishes

I am fresh off a binge of cold food and air-conditioning after living without for twelve hours. Somehow, cold cantaloupe and 75 degree air blasting on my neck seems celestial today. Almost indulgent. Almost. Those window-rattling, frog-strangling thunderstorms never turn out quite as romantic as they do in books, do they? Never once did a hero in my novel lean over and ask the heroine for a Craisin.

Tomorrow, the flooring Gods (okay only in my mind) descend to grant me the first of three writing space wishes: a wood floor. What are the other two you ask? I'm staring at a not-quite-what-I-had-in-mind test spot of Eddie Bauer burgundy for the walls, hoping it'll stop looking like red velvet cake and more like Aggie Maroon (whoop!) Wish three? I'm glad you asked.

I finally made it to an IKEA store last week and bowed in homage at the perfection that was the bookcase section, a vast territory of adjustable shelving that brought tears to my eyes. You mean I won't have to trip over knee-high book stacks anymore? Rejection letters can be dressed in a wallpaper-covered box to lessen the blow and add visual interest? My bra crystals of creativity will have a parking space? (long story, ask me when I hit the NYT list)

If you have never stepped foot in an IKEA store and you hold a man card, run. Away. Fast. For men, I can imagine it is the equivalent of a perfume counter, a bargain Neiman's bin and a bridal gown sprint all rolled into one cute little industrial Swiss package. Never mind that there are instructions when you enter and people fortify themselves with flat carts, yellow bags large enough to fit an Asian elephant, maps and Danish rolls before ascending into PHASE ONE: THE APARTMENTS. It's like Martha Stewart time travel: you won't be back that way again, so seize the moment and indulge in that electric pink office chair you'll abhor when you get it home. Follow that blue arrow and spend, spend, spend. But no, it doesn't end there. You just think you're finished when the elevator descends into PHASE TWO: DECORATIVE CRAP. Might want to stop for a refueling of Swedish meatballs, the shoppers in this phase are anti-establishment ants scrambling against the arrowed-flow for $1.25 wine decanters and bamboo plants stretching to the florescents for escape.

What if there is a fire, you ask? You must navigate mattresses, pass through the technicolor tunnel gauntlet of the kid's zone whilst careful not to trip over life-sized giraffes and ask an associate in a bright yellow polo. They can direct you to safety after your credit card number is entered securely into their system.


In all seriousness, though, I'm going back. Two six-shelf, adjustable bookcases await my return. Wish number three, fulfilled. Or wait, maybe wish three was Josh Halloway mopping up the spilled caffeinated beverage on my desk and saying, "That last line? Brilliant!"

I'm breaking down the computer after this post, so everyone play nice over the weekend. I'll return with photos of my new writer-space next week.